No Virginal Sacrifice
by ShyeMareck
Summary: COMPLETE! The story begins when Meg follows Erik underneath the Paris Opera House. She can't explain why, but she feels drawn to him. Erik, on the other hand, doesn't want the ballerina in his life. Can he move past the hurt?
1. Default Chapter

**-Author's Note-**

**This is my first phantom phiction... despite the fact that I've attempted at one several times. Constructive criticism, suggestions, encouragement, and praise are welcome. Just remember to be gentle!**

**This phiction is 'movie based' with some Susan Kay influence. (He spent some time in Persia, instead of stalking little Christine in her sleep.) Also, I refer to tunnels and homes underneath Paris, France, which I learned about in an article on **

**This is a romance with some encounters between Meg and Erik, but don't expect to find anything sexually explicit. However, it is not entirely without some innuendo and kissing mixed with some heavy breathing. After all, this is Phantom (a passionate, yet bitter, love-starved, rejected and lonely man). Also I have given Erik a better reason for killing Joseph Buquet that he was just upset over Christine not being cast in the lead of the countess in Il Muto.**

**Because this phiction is movie-based instead of Leroux or Kay, I have added something different (at least it is different than most other phan phics) by researching what was happening in Paris in 1870-71. The movie makers blundered terribly by setting the story in 1870 because the Paris Opera wasn't completed until 1875. I found all kinds of true historical events that would have impacted the lives and conversations happening at the time, such as the uprising of the Paris Commune, a early communist organization influenced by Karl Marx and Fredrick Engels in March of 1871.**

**This story is rated PG-13.**

**Summary: Meg follows Erik into the tunnels underneath the city of Paris. Will romance prevail? ErikMeg pairing.**

**I don't own Phantom of the Opera. I do, however, have Gerard Butler stashed away... somewhere.**

**-Shari-**

Meg gasped as she stepped into the cold water. It filled her boots and soaked through her trousers. She shivered. After the initial shock of the stark coldness wore off a bit, she looked about her surroundings. Stone steps led out of the water to, what looked like, an elaborate and meticulous music room. A multiple number of ivory candles lit the stone cellars. At one side of the room, sketches on paper draped over an oak table and scattered over the stone floor. Meg recognize many of the drawings as her best friend Christine.

"He's not here!" She said to the men who had followed her.

"The coward is hiding..." said a short, bald stagehand.

Meg climbed up the stairs, out of the water. She stared into the broken mirrors, fragmenting her reflected image. Lightly, she touched the glass. Here in the phantom's lair, she felt whelmed by a feeling of sadness. Drawing back a heavy, brown curtain, Meg stepped into it's hidden entrance. A white mask laid on the floor, glowing faintly in the darkness. She picked it up. Warmth lingered in the soft leather. Footsteps echoed. Startled, Meg spun around. The shadow of a figure disappeared through the narrow, damp tunnel. The sound of water trickling through the stones distorted the sound of footsteps ahead of her. She began to run, light on her toes. In the distance, she could see light reflecting off of the walls of the tunnel. The corridor changed direction and Meg sensed that she was no longer in the Opera House. The tunnel was crude, with a different kind on stone work than the Paris Opera House boasted. Meg pressed on, apprehensive and yet compelled beyond her own courage. Turning a corner, she slammed into a wall, only it wasn't made of stone. Meg stumbled backward, staring at the wall of a man she'd stumbled into.

"You found me. Now what?" his voice graveled. "Your little adventure ends here. Go back while you still can!"

"What do you mean?" Meg tried to sound indifferent to his threat, but her voice trailed off in uncertainty.

"I don't know what you're after or why you think your going to get it, but this is no place for you. Go back to your mother, Little Meg, and forget whatever curious little prank you're up to!"

"This is yours." She said, reaching her hand forward to give him the mask.

He hesitated but took it from her wordlessly.

The lantern did little to reveal his features, but Meg could make out the determined outline of his chin.

"It is not safe for you here. You must return!" He was angry. But somehow Meg didn't expect anything less.

"No. I want to help you." But even as she said the words, she knew he did not want her help. For years, she had heard tales of the phantom and spread a few stories of her own. Tonight, she finally got to see the legend, himself. He was tall and looked very strong. He glided gracefully across the stage in his performance in 'Don Juan Triumphant', a musical he had written. He was confident and majestic. His voice stirred something in her. It was like nothing she had heard before. It was powerful, yet held a hint of tenderness.

"Help me?" He laughed, heartlessly. "Or are you trying to save your friend and her swain with a virginal sacrifice?" His form towered over her. "I'm sorry to say, but you're too late. They left safely and will, no doubt, live happily ever after. Now leave me the devil alone!" Agitated, he put his mask on, tying it in the back. He turned to walk away. Meg touched him on the arm to stop him.

"I..." She at a loss of words.

"What do you want?" he hissed.

She wanted to apologize. She was sorry she screamed when she first saw his face. She was sorry her mother had led the viscount to the phantom's lair. She was sorry almost half of Paris was after him. She was sorry Christine had hurt him so bad and so publicly.

"Miss Giry? Where are you?" She heard a burly voice drift from a distance.

"Perfect!" The phantom cursed under his breath. He grabbed her by the arm, dragging her with him as he made his way through the winding, never ending tunnels.

"Let me go!" was her hushed plea.

"Yes, I'll let you go and you'll rush to the authorities..." He stopped for a moment and looked her straight in the eye. "You had your chance."

The phantom dragged her through many tunnels. It was a maze. Some tunnels had tracks where pony drawn carts carried coal or stone quarried from under the city to create underground passages. Others were narrow and barely big enough for single passage.

Sounds of life echoed eerily though the chiseled corridors. Muffled voices, crying and laugher mixed with the sound of steel on stone betrayed human presence. An inhuman cry sent chills down her spine. It could have been a cat, a very large cat, or maybe a horse. Once she thought she saw a face illuminated by the lantern in another dark passage. A condemned soul who existed in an underworld suspended between earth and hell. Meg felt dizzy from all the turns they made. She gasped for breath as her foot caught on a loose rock, causing her to fall forward. Her hands slapped against the wet floor. He waited for her to get on her feet, and led them up a flight of stairs that led to a large wooden door.

"Where are we?" Meg whispered. He didn't answer. After turning the latch didn't open the door, he kicked it open. Holding the lantern stretched out in front of him, he cautiously stepped inside.

Meg timidly followed him. Their shadows flickered across room. The brick walls reflected golden hues from the lantern. The room was surprisingly large. A heavy trunk occupied a corner next to a cupboard on the her right. A wooden table stood in the middle of the room, accompanied by two sturdy chairs that faced each other. A large washtub and chamber pot were positioned at the far corner from the cupboard.

The man she'd come to think of as "the phantom" set the lantern in the middle of the table, then turned to look at her.

"Those bounty hunters will probably be gone by morning. You can stay here for the night or you can run and _try_ to find a way out. If you think you can wait a few hours, I'll lead out of here." He took a chair and dragged it by the door, then sat down.

"Where am I to go?" asked Meg. Her home was burning down at this very moment. She didn't know where her mother was or if she was safe.

"_That_ is not my problem." His voice held an eerie calm.

Meg nervously bit her lip as she paced the amply-sized room. His presence was not the thing that twisted her insides with worry and anxiety. Her nerves' frenzy was caused by the fact she was of now a homeless waif!

Her boots rhythmically scraped the floor, from one side of the room to the other and back again.

"Would you desist?" He tilted back in his chair and glared at her.

"Sorry." She sat down on the remaining chair. A fatigued sigh left her lips. Several moments passed before Meg could not take another second of silence. "So..." What was she supposed to say? To the phantom? It was possible this was the first time she didn't know what to say, not to mention the first time she's had her mouth shut for five minutes or more. "What's your name?"

He stared at her for awhile before he answered, curtly. "Erik."

Meg looked at him expectantly.

"Just Erik. No title, surname or honors!"

"Oh." She said in a small voice. Knowing that he'd been denied his father's name, was something she felt uncomfortable knowing. It didn't change anything particularly, but she felt that in some strange way, he was testing her.

An awkward silence almost crackled with the energy that vibrated between them. Meg racked her brain for something to say that would break the tension that threatened to suffocate her.

"Be useful and make some tea." Erik said the resonance of his voice shattering the quiet and making her jump with the suddenness of it all.

Meg looked around. What would she use for heat? She went to the cupboard and looked inside. There was bread, fruit and cheese. She found some candles in tin, practical holders, nothing like the elaborate ones in his quarters under the Opera House. She lit two and looked about the room again in hopes that a fireplace would materialize in her interest.

"What would I use for heat?" Meg asked reluctantly.

"Oh, yes." He said rising. "I will provide for our little nest." His eyes mocked her. He reached into the cupboard and produced a raised trivet with a candle beneath and a ceramic tea pot. Meg watched as he poured water from a pitcher into the teapot and lit the candle from the lantern he'd carried there. She felt helpless and stupid. She could have done it, but, of course, she'd always had a stove and a kettle to boil water. "It will take little longer this way but we're not in a hurry. Are we?" He seemed to deride her even with the simple task of making tea.

She shook her head. It was then she remembered her trousers were still wet and she shivered. However, the tomb of a room also seemed uncharacteristically warm and dry.

Erik must have been reading her thoughts. "We're a few feet under a Chinese laundry. They keep a boiler going day and night."

"In Paris?" She regretted the words as soon as they escaped her mouth. It fed his assumption that she was stupid and didn't know anything beyond her world in the opera house.

"What is your surprise? The fact Parisians get their clothes washed or that they exploit cheap Chinese labor?"

"I didn't mean..." Meg broke off. She really wasn't sure what she meant.

"You are going to be sorry if you don't get those wet clothes off. You might find something in that trunk over there." Erik said.

"What about you? You are just as wet as I am."

"There's a pair of clean trousers and some ladies garments as well." He didn't give an explanation of why he had women's clothing in the trunk. Meg suspected that he meant them for Christine.

The trunk yielded forth other comforts as well: a large feather tick mattress, woolen blankets, two small velvet pillows, a hair brush and mirror, two silk dressing robes and the promised clothing. The dress was a frothy creation of blue silk and white lace. It made Meg think of the ocean with the sky's reflection and white waves. It was a fashionable ensemble with a hat to match. The lacy skirt fitted over an underskirt with tiny knife pleats. The bodice flared over the hip accentuating a tiny waist. Tiny covered buttons formed a single row up the front. The lapel opened to reveal a lace dicky. The sleeves were long and fitted with three tiny buttons near the wrist. It was too perfect. Meg couldn't bring herself to put it on. It was just the kind of thing that Christine would have liked. There were silk undergarments, stockings, and shoes dyed to match the dress.

She opted for the robe. It was burgundy with a great scarlet falcon with wings spread and claws forward emblazoned on the back. Flowers and berries adorned the front. It was smaller than the black one that featured a blue wolf on the back and snow cover evergreen boughs. Red velvet slippers with soft leather soles were packed under the robe. She took comfort that Christine would have never chose either robe for herself, therefore she wasn't intruding as much. Feeling like an intruder, she hesitated, and clutched the robe to her chest. She glanced at Erik.

" I won't watch, if that's what is worrying you." He said, a teasing note in his voice.

It was the first indication that he was beginning to relax at all. He'd been so angry and intense. He'd frightened her but her pride wouldn't allow her to let on. If she thought about it too much, it would make her sick. But the man who stood looking at her now was a long way from the monster that haunted the opera house. If Erik had actually killed Joseph Bouquet, she would have not blamed him. Joseph Bouquet was a dangerous man and the Meg had been warned by her mother to never be alone with him. The other girls had also recited incidents that he had groped them inappropriately. He had been a disgusting character and he'd frightened her more than the "Opera Ghost." She wouldn't discount that Joseph had committed suicide and done so in the most devastating performance possible. He'd always seemed unstable. She didn't want to think of Erik as a cold-blooded killer. She'd been stupid to follow him here. But he'd been an unseen presence in her life. She'd been vaguely aware of him in the opera house and never felt that she was in any danger. The stories that circulated, were of dubious sources and in most cases impossible to prove. She'd invented some of her own. Only in the most recent weeks had anything transpired that could be directly blamed on the 'Opera Ghost.'

"I will leave you to change." He said softly. Something had changed. He'd sounded hurt. It was as though he'd read her thoughts of distrust. She heard the door open and close. He was gone.

She quickly removed the wet trousers and boots. Her underclothes and shirt were still clean and dry. The robe was full and loose, and offering plenty of coverage when tied with the wide sash. A sigh escaped her lips as she slid her sore feet into the slippers. The soft velvet caressed her feet.

The water on the trivet had started to boil. Steam puffed vigorously from the spout. She located a towel to protect her hand and removed the lid to the teapot. She measured some tea into the palm of her hand before adding it to the boiling water. She blew out the candle beneath the trivet and replaced the lid. The cupboard rendered two cups and saucers, another reminder that Christine was supposed to be here.

Meg was sitting down, brushing her hair when Erik returned. He opened the door and stopped suddenly as though he was surprised to see her. The mask did nothing to hide his undisguised bewilderment. He'd probably forgotten that she wasn't Christine and seeing her was a shock, Meg decided.

She'd sliced some of the bread and cheese and placed it on the table with the fruit and tea. He closed the door and slid the bolt into place. He seemed a little unsure of himself as he walked to the cupboard, poured some water into a bowl and washed his hands before sitting down across from her.

Meg poured tea. She watched him from under lowered lashes. He appeared uptight, and avoided looking at her as he drank his tea.

It occurred to her for the hundredth time since she ventured down into the cellars of the opera house, she should be terrified. But aside from the hollow sensation in her stomach, she felt strangely alive. How could she explain what she felt watching the scene from "Don Juan Triumphant" when Erik held Christine in his arms and in his superb tenor voice declare his feelings. Everyone knew that he had written the music for her. Meg fought the green monster of envy and lost. She'd screamed when Christine ripped off his mask, though she was less disturbed by Erik's deformity than Christine's heartless treason. For years now, Christine had habitually disappeared for hours at a time and never once given the real reason for her absence. Meg found it forgivable that Christine had kept her secret, even from her best friend, but unforgivable that she had turned traitor to a man who had risked so much for her. Meg had never even dared hope that such a man existed, who would risk everything for her. Her motivation for following Erik was not entirely clear to her.

She briefly thought of, when she was young, how she'd chased a kitten down into the cellars that been wounded in a rattrap. It ran until it collapsed from exhaustion. Helpless to do anything for it, she held it in her arms til it died. Was she being foolish again to think that she could heal the wounds that had been inflicted on this man?


	2. Chapter Two

Erik had to leave. The walls seemed to be moving in on him. There was so much that he needed to sort out. He'd planned on bringing Christine here to this room. It would be a temporary sanctuary until he could arrange for a house in the country. But in the tradition of the best laid plans, a particular detail had gone awry. He'd ended up with the wrong girl. The irony was lost on him at the moment. His throat had gone dry when he walked into he room and saw Meg dressed in the burgundy robe and brushing her golden hair. It was long with strawberry-colored highlights. Erik knew he shouldn't be noticing things like her light hair and brown eyes. He didn't want to. The sooner he was free of her the better.

Christine was the woman he wanted. She embodied heaven on earth for him. If she had loved him, nothing else would have mattered...at least to him. But for her, his love could never be enough. She pitied him and that was worse than hate. He needed her to need him as much as he needed her. She would see him as desperate and he would have killed himself trying to make her happy.

It didn't stop him from wishing things had been different. Erik would always wonder if she would have stayed with him if he'd done something different. She'd followed him willingly that first time he'd led her down into the depths of the opera house. He felt a pang of guilt thinking of her wide eyed innocence, trusting and pliant. If only she hadn't seen his face... Curse the woman's curiosity! She ruined everything.

Erik knew what the viscount had planned for him that night. He also knew his Christine was part of the treachery. But, he didn't care; not then. All that mattered was that he sing on stage with her, in the role of her lover, no matter what the consequences. For one moment in time he was Don Juan, a man who could have any woman he desired. He could live out a fantasy... A second passed where he thought he might have had it all, but...

Now, here he was, sitting across from Madame Giry's daughter. Abruptly, he stood up; the chair legs scraped the floor.

"There is a feather tick and blankets in the trunk. You may sleep here if you want. I don't care. But do not try to leave. You are not safe outside this door." He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Making his way, with the dim light of the lantern, through the lower levels of tunnels, Erik pondered on the few moments with Mademoiselle Giry. It didn't make sense. Looking into Meg's eyes had felt like fierce blow to the stomach. It was because they were like Christine's, he thought to himself; soft, brown and genuine.

Meg lowered herself onto the feather tick and pulled the thick, cotton blanket over her body. The down tick was a luxury Meg wouldn't have expected, but then she didn't really know what she expected. In fact, she found herself lacking in expectation at the moment. Erik hadn't returned and she didn't know whether to be worried or not. She felt a twinge of guilt; she wasn't supposed to be here. Leastwise, the phantom of the opera didn't want her there. The phantom of the opera... Meeting the legend in the flesh somehow eclipsed the title. Somehow, it didn't matter anymore that he was the Opera Ghost. Maybe it because they were far away from the opera or the fact Meg felt so tired, La Carlotta could barge in with her performance of a toad and Meg would most likely sleep through it. She smiled. Carlotta blamed the phantom for the incident. But, as Meg noticed, Erik had cast Carlotta in 'Don Juan Triumphant' even though she was "past her prime". She drifted off to sleep with the music from the night's performance playing itself in her head. The last semi-coherent image that passed through her brain was the scene, Past the Point of No Return, but she cast herself in the lead, instead of Christine.

The sound of following footsteps startled him. He spun around, peeved at the thought that maybe Meg had followed him.

Garrick Mahoney. He was a gangly boy of fifteen, with mud-smeared clothes and a drawn look about his face.

"Good evening, M'sir." The young man's thick Irish accent coated his attempt to speak the French language.

Erik cleared his throat. "Boy, it isn't wise to take one by surprise in these parts."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you." The youth replied. Erik leaned against the wall, sighing. He had no place to go. His home under the Paris Opera House was probably still crawling with policemen and bounty hounds alike. "You don't seem yourself, M'sir." He sounded genuinely concerned. Erik stiffened. He'd let his guard down too much recently and it cost him dearly.

Erik opened his mouth to tell him to be cautious, but stopped himself. Garrick had been well educated on the dangers of the Paris underground. He had the intuition of a clairvoyant and the instinct of a bloodhound. The boy probably knew every lowlife and lunatic that lurked in the suffocating darkness beneath the city. He possessed a wariness that had served him well in self-  
preservation. Erik had come the respect the young man for his resourcefulness and entrepreneurial skills. More than once Erik had found him useful in dealing with the world above. The boy had been fair and honest. He needed him again to attend to Meg, lead her out into the city and see her safely to her home. Wherever that was. Erik was vaguely aware that the girl had lost her home as much as he had. But that wasn't his problem, he quickly reminded himself.

Erik produced a few coins that he knew would be more than adequate compensation for what he had in mind and gave them to the boy.

"There is a lady under the laundry. Watch the door until morning so that no one harms her and take her out at the crack of dawn. There is a boarding house two blocks south and one block east of the opera house. Take her there. Mademoiselle Giry has acquaintances there who can direct her to her mother.

"She's young, M'sir?" Garrick looked at him in open surprise.

Erik nodded but quickly added."Not that it's any on your business!" He thought he detected a hint of reproval in the boys voice. It suddenly struck him as odd that he was having this exchange with anyone let alone a boy, half his age, that he barely knew.

"Yes, M'sir." Garrick nodded.

Erik made his way back to the opera house with some trepidation. The place would have been crawling with police earlier, but the worst of the nights events would be over and he hadn't deactivated some of the traps that might be lethal if someone was to venture out into some areas. The thought that Madame Giry or someone else concerned about Meg might be foolish enough to go down into the cellars was something he didn't want on what was left of his conscience. The traps could be disabled easily and he might be able to recover some comforts for the room under the laundry.

He was running on adrenaline but it would have been impossible to eat or sleep in the same room as the young ballerina. He was used to the closed dark spaces but her presence made the room seem unusually claustrophobic. Perhaps the company of a young woman was too much. He'd never had a woman for a companion with the exception of his time with Christine and then the relationship had been obviously disconnected when she didn't even know who or what he was. It was strange how he could see that now when six hours ago, he was blind to it. Meg didn't act frightened of him and if he were honest, it bothered him. She didn't seem stupid. What was wrong with her? What was wrong with him? Why was he even thinking about her? Out of respect for her mother he would never let any harm come to her, but that was where is responsibility ended.

As he neared the opera house, he noticed that it was indeed very quiet. It about four o'clock in the morning and the fire was doused, he guessed. As he'd expected, his former home had been ransacked. There was nothing to salvage. Sadness for his loss seemed pointless when the theater was in a terrible state. The singed remains were like looking into a mirror. A monument of wasted potential. He made his way through the maze of corridors with ease and familiarity. The traps yielded no victims. The temptation to see the destruction he'd caused got the better of him and he found himself in the remarkable preserved box five. The fire hadn't threatened the structural integrity of the theater. He was oddly relieved that the worst of the damage was cosmetic.

It suddenly occurred to him that he wasn't alone. The last thing he'd expected was company.

"How could you do this?" Madame Giry sat in the corner of box five shrouded in darkness.

"I didn't want to. It just seemed like the only way." He didn't know why he was explaining himself. It wasn't something he did often.

"Meg is dead. I have nothing." Madame Giry said flatly.

"No...," he said, shocked. It hadn't occurred to him that Meg would be assumed dead. His inclination to put Madame Giry's mind at ease was clouded by self preservation. If it were known that he knew Meg's whereabouts, he would be wanted for kidnaping charges, among other things. The woman had caused enough trouble, leading the viscount to his home. Erik needn't ask to know she betrayed him. On the other hand, the sooner he got rid of Meg, the better. "Your daughter is safe, Adele. She's most likely asleep."

Madame Giry breathed in relief. "Where is she? How do you know this?"

Erik stared into the darkness, debating how much he should tell her. "I believe that she will be seeing you soon, unharmed. She is with... a... friend. Go home." He meant to sound indifferent, but his voice cracked harshly with fatigue.

"This is my home." Madame Giry exclaimed, her voice heavy with accusation.

"It was my home also, until you brought that useless boy here to destroy me!" Erik hissed raggedly.

"You killed Joseph Buquet. Did you not?" Madame Giry argued.

"You do not know the whole story. If I did not kill him, he would have killed me. I would not kill for pleasure, as some believe. The man preyed on innocent girls. I am surprised that you did not know this!" Erik felt his anger rising that Madame Giry had not done more to protect the girls in the dorm. "Did you not know that he raped Michelle?"

Madame Giry gasped in surprise. "The poor thing. No wonder she was ill and could not work the routines. She was ill every morning..." She broke off. "I didn't realize... She was so young and immature. She was let go because she was so ill... She did not say anything!" She defended herself.

"Of course not. He beat her and threatened to kill her if she told." Erik informed her coldly. "Don't tell me you didn't suspect something. You watched little Meg and Christine like a hawk."

"But it wasn't enough to protect them from you!" Madame Giry burst out angrily.

"But I would not...did not harm them!" He argued. "I...I..." He choked on the words. He'd almost said that her loved her. But it was too painful to remember how his declaration had been received.

"I turned my head when you took interest in Christine because I knew you could teach her to sing and it would help her career. But you took advantage of her trust and innocence." Her voice reveled that she blamed herself.

"You do not know what you are talking about!" Erik shouted, his voice resonating deep with torment. He fought the urge to slap the woman.

"I know that she thought the world of you. You had no right to use her loyalty against her. She has a right to a life with someone her own age, who can give her a family." Madame Giry countered softly.

"Believe me. I know. Why do think she is with him now? Do you really think I could condemn her to share my sentence?" Erik felt the ache in his gut tighten and the tears threaten. He'd considered Madame Giry a friend, but the woman possessed a cruel streak that demanded his attention if not his respect. He could not forget that she had been kind to him when no one else cared. Even now, he found that she understood him in ways no one else had. She had a good heart and even in her betrayal, he knew, she was trying to protect Christine. She made him wary of the fact that if she knew that he'd dragged Meg halfway across the city to a sparse basement room to save his butt from the authorities, she probably throttle him with her bare hands. He'd rather face the police squad than Madame Giry if she ever found out.

"What are you to do now? What am I to do? I have a daughter and no place to live!" The ballet mistress raised her voice.

"She isn't a child."

"Of course, she is. She's never known a life outside the theater. She isn't wise to people..." Madame Giry trailed off.

"Give her some credit. She seems like a smart girl." Erik stopped suddenly. It didn't seem right talking to Madame Giry about Meg especially since something in the atmosphere had changed. Dawn was breaking and pale reflections of light shown through the broken windows of the opera house. "I bid you adieu, Madame." He left quickly.

Meg didn't know how long she'd slept or what time it was when she woke. The unnatural silence unnerved her a little, but she willed herself to remain calm. She dressed into the trousers that were now dry, though stiff and wrinkled. She still wore the shirt. The boots were dry enough as well. She was debating about what she was going to do until Erik returned when there was a distinct tap on the door. It frightened her. Wouldn't Erik just have walk in? Maybe not. She opened the door. A boy, she guessed to be still in his teens, looked back at her with the same uncertainty that she felt.

"Mam'sel."

"Yes?" Meg didn't quite know how to respond to the rangy youth.

"M'sir sent me to take you away." He said.

Meg wasn't sure she should trust the boy. "Who is Monsieur?"

"He is M'sir Erik. I will lead you into the city to a boarding house."

"Did he tell you to take me to a boarding house?" Meg was put out that Erik would be so bold as to decide where she was to be delivered, like she was a package to be posted.

"Come, I will show you the way out of here." Meg followed him.

The escape route turned out to be just a few yards away from the room where she'd spent the night. A single flight of stairs led up to a dark room that appeared to be a storage shed. She took in the surroundings. The sun hadn't shed its rays on the grungy alley that the boy led her through. A milliner's shop with the name of a Pierre Grenois in the window caught her attention as she was led through a cobblestone street. Meg had no idea where she was outside of the general vicinity of Paris. She stopped to catch her breath. The boots were making blisters on her feet. The boy hurried on without her. If she lost him, she would never find her way back to the opera house. Daily life on the streets of Paris was beginning to take shape. The smell of freshly baked bread tantalized her nostrils and her stomach growled in response. The boy turned to see if she was still following. She was limping. Her boots had still been damp and the moisture had been caused her feet to swell. It was bad enough that she was lost, but her feet were her livelihood. She had no choice but to stop, sit down and take off her boots. The boy watched her as she did this.

"No, Mam'sel. We have to hurry." He said.

"I can't possibly take another step. My feet are blistered and swollen. Where can I find a coach?" She demanded. It wasn't like her to be so petulant, but she thought the boy unusually rude.

"Not here." He replied without resentment. "This is a dangerous street and there is a carriage house just over two blocks." He came to stand in front of her and extended a hand to help her up.

As she brushed herself off, she caught a glimpse of two small children running; a young boy about seven years old and a redheaded little girl. The children were dirty, and their thin little bodies were barely covered with rags. They wore no shoes. It was Meg's first time in seeing what was called 'street urchins'. She felt a pang of sadness. All of her life, she had been sheltered from the sad, bad, and disappointing. In the past twelve hours, she had seen the cruelty of the world and was momentarily disgusted that she was apart of it.

"Come on! The carriage house isn't far from here." The young boy's words broke through her thoughts.

He started walking again and she followed out of fear that she would be left as easy prey for villainous characters. He led her down a narrow alley, buildings towering on both sides. The scenery had improved in the last few yards. The buildings were somewhat maintained although old and in various stages of decay. It wasn't a familiar neighborhood. The sounds and smells of morning floated through the air. In the distance, a baby was crying. They went by a bakery and Meg breathed in the scent of fresh bread.

The carriage house and stables were unfamiliar as well. Montague & Son Coach Service in painted letters graced the sign above the door. Meg followed the young man inside to inquire about a coach. It would be available immediately upon payment. It was then that Meg realized that she didn't have any money. In reality, she rarely thought about money. She never lacked for any real comfort and her mother had always taken care of their finances. The boy handed over the requested coins. It surprised her. He didn't look like he had three meals a week on a regular basis. Where did he get money for a coach? She felt foolish that he would have to spend his own money on her. She would get the money from her mother to pay him back.

Meg shielded her eyes from the painfully bright rays peaking over the city. The carriage was clean and comfortable, making the trip to the Clureaux Boarding House a pleasant contrast to walking in her bare feet. The owner, Monsieur Alexandre Clureaux, was a cousin of Meg's late father Jean-David Giry. To her, he was known as Uncle Alec. "Thank you for escorting me. I'm sorry I don't have any money to give you."

The young man shook his head. "M'sir has taken care of that." he said, before bowing his head ever-so-slightly. "I bid adieu, Mam'sel." He turned to leave.

"Wait! Have you eaten?"

The boy hesitated. "No."

"My aunt Clair has a chef here. He has a tremendous talent. I'm sure she won't mind if you join us." Meg smiled. He stuck his hand out.

"My name is Garrick Gavin Mahoney."

She accepted his handshake. "I'm Margaret Adele Giry. Call me Meg."

Garrick held the front door open for Meg to go inside first.When they entered the sitting room, Meg was soon embraced by her plump, raven-haired Aunt Clair.

"I've been so worried! Your mother hasn't had a wink of sleep." The woman wet her thumb and wiped a dirt smudge from Meg's cheek.

"Is she alright?"

"Yes, with the exception of a few frayed nerves and a near heart attack." She chuckled. It was then she noticed her companion. Meg gently pushed him forward.

"This is Garrick. He accompanied me in getting here. I told him that he would be rewarded in breakfast." She paused. "I'm sorry if I was too bold in inviting him."

"It's quite alright. I'm grateful he brought you to us, but breakfast is not ready yet." She turned to Garrick. "If you rather not wait, there are muffins and milk in the kitchen."

"Muffins and milk will do fine, Madame." He bowed his head.

"I'll ask Jacques to bring some ham and eggs." She pointed to the direction of the dinning room and told Garrick she would join him soon. "Meg, are you hungry?"

"Yes, but I'm filthy. I would like to take a bath and change into some clean clothes first."

Her aunt nodded. Meg limped to the bathroom.

"Oh dearie, what is the matter with your feet?" The older woman exclaimed.

"It's nothing, really." Meg lied. They were swollen and blistered. Her mother was surely going to scold her when she found out. Madame Giry was always reminding the ballet girls to take good care their feet.

The bathroom was a recent addition to the old boarding house and Aunt Clair was very proud of it. Meg turned on the faucet and hot water poured into the porcelain tub. She added lavender scented bath salts to the steaming water and removed her clothing.

Meg sighed as she eased her body into the hot water. Her muscles were sore from her cold and uncomfortable night underground. She winced from the pain as the heat affected her blistered feet. It would take days for her feet to heal.

She thought about Erik. The Paris underground was a dangerous place. He'd warned her about the dangers, but the dangers were there for him too. Did he have what he needed? He might become ill. Who would take care of him? Why did she care? Surely he had survived this long without her. But she couldn't shake him from her thoughts. She wouldn't be able to stop thinking about him til she knew he was alright.


	3. Chapter Three

Erik returned to the room under the laundry. He was relieved to find Meg gone. He was exhausted and the last thing he needed was the young woman who had been the closest friend and confidant to Christine reminding him of what he'd lost. The feather mattress where Meg had spent the night remained as she'd left it. The satin duvet was thrown back as though she had just barely gotten up. The bed beckoned him.

As he lay down in it's softness, it occurred to him that it hadn't been long since she'd been there. Her scent lingered with a hint of warmth. In spite of himself, he inhaled deeply. Her's wasn't a smell that was enhanced by manufactured perfume. It was a unique, honest mixture of perspiration, soap and something so elementally female that he felt oddly disturbed. It made him think of a warm summer night in the country with the sweetness of wild flowers carried on a cool breeze. How dare she do this to him! A man had a right to sleep in his own bed without the residual effects of a woman he wanted to forget. It was with irritation confused with loneliness that he buried his face in the duvet and let himself feel her warmth on his face. Sleep overtook him sometime later, the vision of a young woman with straight blond hair and his beloved Christine teasing him with flirtatious glances and seductive smiles. Damn them!

A strange scratching sound penetrated Erik's foggy brain. He wanted to ignore it and sleep. It might just stop and go away on its own. A rat perhaps...a very large rat! He woke to unfamiliar surroundings, then remembered the previous night. The scratching continued. It came from the heavy wooden door. He had company. The temptation to ignore it was strong, but for the events of the night before. He thought it might be the police but they wouldn't hesitate to break down the door. Christine? No. She wouldn't know where to find him and it was a vain expectation to think that she would bother. Meg? But, why? He lit the lantern, put his mask on and opened the door.

The dim light revealed Patsy. The woman, on the other side of the door was as he, a cast off of society, and a resident of the underground. She was undoubtedly mentally retarded but harmless, unlike himself. Many of the people living and lurking in the darkness under the city were mentally ill. He didn't know how old she was or how long she had sought an uncertain sanctuary beneath the city. She talked but her mutterings were strangely disconnected and he wasn't sure if she was talking to herself or to him. Now she shuffled past him and made her way to the cupboard. He didn't know how she knew there would be food there. The cupboard was a fairly recent addition and the food had only been added yesterday. She amazed him. It was as though she possessed an extra sensory gift. But it might explain her ability to survive in a harsh and unforgiving world. She wasn't afraid of him. That was obvious in the way she made a pouch with her skirt and filled it with apples, cheese and bread from the cupboard and walked past him and out the door. She left just enough for him to have a meal. He thought about following her to find out where she was going, but such knowledge wouldn't make a difference. He would have to get more food next time.

He didn't have any way to cook a hot meal and his stomach growled in protest. It made him think of his plans for Christine and the house in the country where they could have been safe and away from the prying eyes of any neighbors. The country house was hidden from view of the main road. He had planned to share his life and love with Christine in that house. Now, it seemed there was no point except that he was currently homeless. The dismal, cavern of a room could only be a temporary consideration at best. No one would bother him there and only a few people knew of its existence. But he couldn't bear being underground for too long without becoming claustrophobic. Even he found it ironic that for all the years that he lead the life of burrowing rodent, he fought the panic that threatened to suffocate him.

He checked his watch for the time. Another disadvantage of living underground was that it was impossible to know whether it was day or night. At one time he found it safe and somewhat comforting to exist in a world of flickering shadows and eternal night where he was invisible. He wasn't sure if the change was that he'd simple out-grown the excitement of playing hide and seek or that he craved what he couldn't have, a normal life. Erik had been able to live his lonely line fairly comfortably. Christine was one of the few people who had come into his life. She had given him her company to look forward to, just to rip it away. It should have killed him. The pain of rejection struck deep in his chest again as a reminder of what he so desperately wanted and couldn't have. Christine. He closed his eyes and her face appeared before him. In the stillness, her voice rang out in his mind, clear and resonant.

A rumbling sound made his blood run cold. It sounded to close for comfort. At any moment his way out of the subterranean hideaway could be blocked. He felt the moisture on his palms when he jerked open the door and realized his worst fears. The cave-in was in the direction from where he'd come from the opera house a about fifty feet from the door.

A grunt and a whimper came from under the rubble. In the dim, flickering glow, Erik could make out a mop of hair and an arm. Instantly, he used his hands to dig away the rocks and dirt from the limp form. It was Patsy. Horror and relief passed through him at once. She was still alive.

"Talk to me, Patsy!" Erik commanded.

"No," came the reply. He laughed in spite of himself. It was just what he would have expected from her under ordinary circumstances.

"You're going to be fine. We'll get this mess off of you and you'll be good as new." He said more to convince himself than Patsy. She wasn't likely to be impressed by anything he said. Fortunately, the earth that had fallen was soft and crumbled rather that stone. But it also meant that it was just a matter of time before there was another more serious cave-in that could either trap him or cut him off from his current quarters.

Patsy huddled on the muddy floor and rocked back and forth in a frantic rhythm. She emitted a high pitched keening sound through clenched teeth. The sound grated on his own frayed nerves, but he forced himself to be calm and patient. He felt worthless and completely inadequate to do anything to help the woman. She probably belonged in an asylum. The thought made a chill go down his spine. He belonged in an asylum. If the public had their way, he would be there now. Patsy didn't deserve to be put in the airless cells of the city mental institution. She had some odd behaviors and seemed eccentric at times, but she was also a gentle soul. He had heard her talking to herself on several occasions and was shocked by her wit and intelligence. She referred to herself in third person and never addressed him outright. It had taken him awhile after meeting her several years ago that she was the one she called Patsy. Her comments were indirect and always statements. Never questions. The wail gradually subsided and the rocking back and forth slowed, but her teeth chattered incessantly and she was shaking.

He was surprised that she allowed him to pick her up and carry her to the room under the laundry. She was dirty beyond belief when he set her down in one of the chairs. He poured her a cup of cold tea and set it before her. She ignored it and huddled, still shaking. He didn't have the necessary facilities for bathing himself let alone anyone else. What had he been thinking? If he had brought Christine here, how long could she have stood the dark, damp, airless cavern?

The house in the country suddenly became all important. Would Christine have chosen him if he offered her a real home with windows, curtains, carpets and plush furniture? With or without Christine, he had to have the country house. He sat down to draft a letter.

Meg sat on her aunt's sofa, wearing a blue morning dress, borrowed from her aunt, with her swollen bare feet stretched out before her. She heard her mother's footsteps on the stairs and knew that Madame Giry was furious. She braced her self for the impending barrage. Her mother did not disappoint her.

"Margaret Adele Giry, where have you been?" Madame Giry demanded, taking off her hat and gloves. She wore stylish black silk from head to toe. "How could you do this to me? I thought you were dead!" When she saw Meg red and swollen feet, she exclaimed. "Your feet! What happened to your feet? Oh, honey, what happened to you?"

Meg found herself being cradled in her mother's arms. She was unprepared for the tears that poured forth as her mother wept. She had no idea what to say. How could she possibly tell what happened and yet she was reluctant to lie.

"Mother, I am just fine. My feet will heal soon and I will be fine." Meg said with forced cheer. Madame Giry stared at her, incredulous.

"I know, dear, but it will take weeks and one of us needs to work. I can open a dance studio and teach, but we have to have a means of support until I can open the studio for business. The opera house is destroyed. We are unemployed!" Meg hadn't thought about that. The sudden realization that life, as she knew it, was over hit her with an impact that cause the blood to drain from her face. She felt cold and clammy. She had been thoughtless and foolish to follow Erik through the tunnels, splashing through puddles, then walking that morning in damp leather. The blisters were excruciating. "You haven't told me where you've been. I don't think I could bear it if anything happened to you. Did anything bad happen, honey?" Meg wasn't sure what her mother meant by 'bad.' Her feet felt pretty bad.

"I am fine, mother. I told you that already. I went down into the cellars of the Opera house to find Christine," she lied. "I went through a long tunnel and I got lost. I couldn't get out until Eri..." She broke off unsure of how she was going to explain anything without bringing Erik into the picture.

"I knew it. Erik had something to do with this didn't he?" Madame Giry accused.

"He kept me safe." Meg said.

"I'll just bet he did!" Her mother scoffed. "Don't get any ideas. He may seem charming enough, but he isn't stable and don't trust him. There is no need for you to ever see him again." Meg may have imagined the relief present in her mother's voice. Madame Giry examined her daughter's feet and Meg winced at her touch. "It could take weeks for you feet to heal. We will have to stay here. We will have to get you some new clothes. Our quarters were badly burned in the fire."

"I'm so sorry, Mother. I will get well better soon, so I can help in the studio." Meg said although her heart wasn't in it. The idea of teaching spoiled little prima donas who's parents had more money than sense seemed tedious and exhausting. "You seem so tired, Mama. Please don't make yourself sick." Meg noticed her mother seemed older suddenly. Guilt stabbed at her. Since, Meg's father had died, her mother had worked so hard to provide for them. Meg had barely made a beginning wage as a ballerina. Her mother had earned most of her support. Meg couldn't expect that she keep doing it.

"Now that I know you're safe, everything is going to be fine." Madame Giry forced a wary smile, brushed the bangs away from her daughter's face and kissed her forehead.

"Tea or coffee?" Aunt Clair bustled in the sitting room carrying a silver tray with china cups and saucers.

"Nothing for me, Clair. I have to be going again. There is a place I want to see. It has a large room that might work for the studio. I will have to use our savings if the rooms are adequate, so I may have to go to the bank. Also I must see a dressmaker. I will be late; don't hold dinner for me." Madame Giry stood and put on her gloves and hat, signaling her departure. She handed Med a few francs from her handbag with the remark that she never be without a little money for emergencies.

"Well, I suppose then, that this is for you, dear." Aunt Clair set the tray down on a low table next to the sofa. There were muffins, butter and honey and summer sausage. Meg's stomach growled in gratitude when she smelled the breakfast.

"Thank you, Aunt Clair. You've been so good to me. These smell so good I think I shall become fat as a pig." Meg said spreading butter generously on a warm muffin.

"Jacques will be pleased that you enjoy them. You just take it easy and get yourself whole again, dearie, and if you need anything, call him. I must be getting myself to the literature club. We are reading an American author, Louisa May Alcott." Clair said beaming. She was a kind soul, Meg thought.

Aunt Clair left and Meg waited til she heard the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairway cease and a door close, then silence. Carefully she slipped on an old pair of Aunt Clair's slippers and stepped on the rug. Her feet were still very tender, and she winced with each step as she crept down the long steep stairway and into the kitchen where Jacques, Aunt Clair's hired chef, was up to his elbows in dough.

"Mademoiselle!" He exclaimed in protest as Meg hobbled into the kitchen.

"Jacques, I wanted to tell you myself how much I enjoyed the muffins." Meg gushed enthusiastically. The short, thin, balding man stared at her as though she had lost her mind. "Could I please have some more?"

"Of course, you may have as many as you want, but why didn't you ring the bell? You shouldn't be on your feet."

"Don't be silly. I am just as good as new." She lied. "I'll just take a few." Meg reached for a woven basket, filled with fresh garden vegetables, that sat on a bench near the door. "These look good too. I haven't eaten for ages."

"Of course, Mademoiselle." He stared at her. She really couldn't blame him. It was obvious to anyone that she had taken leave of her senses.

A carriage stopped outside the boarding house, twenty minutes later, to deliver an older couple, who were regular boarders. Meg greeting the couple politely, forcing a pleasant expression on her face though her heart raced and her feet ached. She asked the driver if he knew where the Montague carriage service was located. He nodded in reply. Surely she would be able to find the entrance to the underground if she could make it back as far as the carriage house.

It was in the middle of the afternoon when Meg found the entrance. The carriage driver had agreed to wait a few minutes for her to return. She limped down the stairway into the tunnel, carrying the basket laden. The darkness was intimidating and the single candle she'd brought flickered, threatening to go out. Cupping her hand around the candle, she continued. The door to the room where she'd spent the night was closed. There was mud and stones in a heap not far from the door. Without knocking, she jerked the door open.

"What the hell!" Erik spun around in surprise. Meg took in the scene before her. A woman, filthy and trembling sat hunched in one of the chairs. She rocked and swayed back and forth, a high pitched whine came from the woman's clenched teeth. The sight took Meg off guard. She turned and ran. Erik anticipated her move and stopped her, took the basket from her hand and pulled her into the room, closing the door behind her.

"What are you doing here?" He seemed less than pleased to see her. Meg tried not to feel cross.

"I brought some muffins and fresh vegetables." She brought her chin up defiantly. His eyes soften briefly before narrowing suspiciously at her.

"Take your charity somewhere else. I don't need it." He put the basket forcibly against her. She let it drop. Muffins, carrots, cucumbers, onions, tomatoes and potatoes spilled out on the floor. Meg and Erik both ignored the disarrayed contents, glaring at each other, while words were momentarily lost to them. Patsy, however, knelt down to retrieve a muffin to let it disappear in her mouth. Both aware of the action, Meg smiled her triumph.

"This is Patsy. She is a neighbor of mine." Erik stepped back and motioned toward the woman who did not even look up. Meg wondered about her strange behavior but had better manners to comment.

"Pleased to meet you, Patsy." She said. The woman put another muffin in her mouth. It occurred to Meg that something was very wrong with the woman. She looked like she may have been in her late thirties or early forties. Her face was pleasant enough if it had been washed, but there was a sad, vacant look in her countenance. She was probably a lunatic. The thought sent a chill through Meg. Erik looked at her, a clear challenge in his eyes. Rising to the occasion, she knelt down and began to pick up the vegetables and return them to the basket.

"How did you get here?" Erik asked.

"I have a carriage waiting for me." She answered as she limped to the cupboard and put the vegetables inside.

"You're limping. What have you done to yourself? " Erik demanded.

"Blisters." Meg tried to sound trivial.

"How could you be so careless?" He scolded. "Let me see." Kneeling down on one knee, he removed her aunt's slipper, while she held on to the back of a chair for balance. Gently he touched her foot. She winced, more from the anticipated pain than reality. "You shouldn't be walking around. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I was repaying the kindness that you showed me last night."

"It was completely unnecessary." Erik replaced the slipper. "You don't want to keep the carriage waiting any longer."

"Yes. I must be going." She nodded politely to Patsy, who ignored her and glanced at Erik. She felt like an awkward child. It was clear that her attempt to be friendly was not appreciated. She hobbled to the door, carrying the dwindling candle. It had been a long time since she'd felt so pathetic and embarrassed. The tunnel and the darkened stairway seemed unusually creepy. The bright sun light at the top didn't do much to improve her mood. She blinked against the sudden glare and in some surprise that the carriage was still there. Her feet were hurting more now than before. The driver looked impatient as she limped toward the carriage. A sound behind her made her turn suddenly and step on a sharp stone. She cried out. A man in a black cloak, hat and mask reached out to catch her as she fell into his arms.

"I thought you'd be gone by now." Erik hissed into her ear. He held her firm without missing a beat in his stride. "I don't supposed you'd mind sharing you carriage with me, since you didn't hesitate to barge in on me unannounced." He placed her inside the coach while the driver held the door open and tucked her skirt in around her. The gesture took her off guard. For someone who acted like he didn't want her around, he was attentive and thoughtful. He pulled himself in beside her and rapped on the cab with his knuckles signaling he was ready to leave.

"Thank you." She said for lack of anything else. He made it clear that he didn't want her company. "What about Patsy? Is she going to be alright?" She knew that Erik didn't want to talk to her, but the possibility of spending the next thirty or forth minutes in absolute silence was incomprehensible, and she was extremely curious about the woman in the room.

"What am I? A nursemaid?" He snapped, but instantly his demeanor was apologetic. "I'm sorry, Meg. None of this is your fault, just promise me that you will stay put when I drop you off and let your feet heal." He sounded genuinely concerned. She didn't want to voice what was going through her head: What was the point? The opera house was burned and she was unemployed at the moment. "Patsy is pretty resourceful. I suppose that she has family somewhere, but if they were interested in her well-being, she wouldn't have been living in the caverns for the last seven years or so."

"She doesn't seem quite right." Meg said, regretting her words instantly. Erik looked at her out of the corner of his eye, regarding her with impatience.

"No, she doesn't. It is hard to say what is exactly wrong with her. Peculiar is hardly enough to describe her but she is quite harmless. She was caught in a cave-in, but she didn't seem to have broken any bones." Erik stopped abruptly. Meg looked at him from beneath her lashes. He stared straight ahead at nothing.

"The food wasn't charity." She said, staring down at her feet. "I was grateful and wanted to repay you."

"Was?" He looked at her sideways with Meg swore was a hint of a smile.

"Am."

"Don't do me any favors, Mademoiselle Margaret."

"Meg." She automatically corrected him, being called Meg since she could remember.

"Meg is a little girl's name."

Not knowing what to say, she stared outside the window. Erik was right. Her name was for some pigtailed, giggling girl with scraped knees and no front teeth. Meg sighed. Her mother was extremely protective; especially after her father had died in a riding accident when she was five. She was still barely allowed to cross the street without holding her mother's hand. It seemed she was almost always at arms length and reluctant to let Meg leave the opera house.

"Don't come back to the room under the laundry." The sense of irritation in his voice had returned.

"If you don't want me to, I won't." Her gaze didn't leave the scenery. The carriage had stopped. "But you have to come and see me, or I will have to visit again soon."

"Don't be ridiculous. I have no desire to be pestered by visitors. I am a recluse, content with my own company."

"Is that why you kidnaped your lover?"

"Mind your own business." Erik reached across Meg and opened the door on her side. "I don't need your friendship or concern."

"I think you do." Meg felt bold.

"Mademoiselle, I do not have all day!" Complained the driver.

Meg and Erik stared at each other for one long moment. His stormy-blue eyes told Meg Erik was very angry.

"Au revoir, Monsieur Fantome." Carefully, she stepped out of the carriage and closed the door behind her.

It was almost dark when Meg entered her Aunt's boarding house to find that her mother and Aunt were not yet returned. Relief washed through her. A confrontation would not have been welcome. The aroma of something delicious wafted across her nose, but the stinging and burning sensation in her feet over rode hunger. She was back on her sofa nursing her tender limbs when Madame Giry arrived full of motherly concern.

"I have some healing salve." Her mother announced upon entering the sitting room and produced a tin of salve. "This should help." She proceeded to apply the smelly stuff on her daughter's feet.

Meg was to spend the next three days letting the salve do its work.

_Til we meet again,_ she had said. Erik relaxed against the leather seat as the carriage jolted back into movement. Women were an irritable lot. Margaret thought she could just march into his life with her muffins and big brown eyes. He shook his head. She was Mademoiselle Giry, Adele's daughter. This blond ballerina was off limits, even if it included only a friendly relationship. She was also Christine's friend. Christine. He swallowed the lump in his throat. The past twenty-four hours had been quite eventful and he was running on only a few hours of sleep.

The carriage slowed to a stop. Erik got out and paid the driver. Pulling his cloak's hood over his head, he walked toward an aged townhouse and rapped on the door. An older man with gray, ruffled hair and a scraggly beard answered the door. His sharp, green eyes peered up at the hooded man.

"Who are you?" The man wheezed.

Erik removed the hood and stepped into the candlelight.

"Erik!" The man's face showed surprise.

"Monsieur Garnier." Erik bowed his head in acknowledgment.

"What are you doing here?" Charles Garnier stepped back. Erik frowned. His old friend's skittish behavior both troubled and confused him.

"I have decided to sell the master plans for the hotel you previewed last year. I offer you the plans at a reasonable discount before they are put up for bid. If you would like another preview, I shall arrange it tomorrow, otherwise, they will be up for bid in two days."

"You should not be here."

Erik waited for an explanation.

"Paris lost it's biggest talents from your shenanigans and devilry." He was caught in a fit of coughs, gasping for air.

Erik towered over him. "What are you accusing me of?"

"You know what I'm talking about." Erik did know.

"Were you there?" He asked the ageing architect.

"No. But, I have heard enough to know it couldn't be anyone else." The man spat.

"I suppose I should be flattered. No one has ever had such great expectations of me." Erik's eyes narrowed. "You've known me for a long time. If you are going to let rumors destroy an extraordinary business opportunity, then it is your loss. I won't bother you again." With a stiff nod, he stepped out into the cool night air. Again, Erik pulled his cloak's hood over his head. The door slammed shut behind him. Bristling, he squared his shoulders and walked in the shadows, from the street lanterns, along the cobble-stone avenue.


	4. Chapter Four

Erik glanced around. The storm drain down the street would be the shortest route to where he needed to be. A light breeze carried the smell of something delicious from the bistro on the corner. His stomach rumbled in anticipation. Inadvertently he thought of the muffins Meg had brought earlier. He lifted the grate from the storm drain and eased himself into the tunnel below. Sounds of a fiddle playing an old folk tune, singing and laughter echoed from somewhere in the darkness. Erik felt his way through the narrow channel toward the sound. It sounded more and more like a party as he went closer. Light flickered in the distance. Madame Rustele was entertaining some rowdy clients tonight. The heavy wooden door creaked ominously as he pushed it open. Instantly a large burly man stood in front of him.

"Relax, Bart, I am looking for Monsieur Antoine Trudeau." Erik said. Bart looked momentarily torn in his decision, but stepped aside. The room was fairly large, at least twice as big as the room under the laundry. Thick red draperies covered the brick walls. A well stocked bar graced one corner of the room, while several chairs and a table occupied the center. Four men sat about the table, playing cards and smoking cigars. A girl served them drinks. They visibly stiffened but otherwise ignored him. Their reaction both pleased and irritated him. He knew they were uncomfortable and had probably heard gossip about the "phantom of the opera." It gave him a feeling of power that almost made up for their rudeness.

"Erik, I am surprised, but honored by your arrival." Madame Rustele almost floated up to him. She wore heavy rouge, scarlet lip paint and black eyeliner. The magenta silk gown was fashionable, though the color did nothing to compliment her henna colored hair and sallow complexion. Her smile was fake and Erik wondered momentarily at her cordial behavior.

He didn't trust the woman. She was well known in the city for her profession and the popular brothel above where they stood now. Erik wondered what she was up to that brought her to the underground. It couldn't be good, he surmised, but minded his own business.

"I am here to see Monsieur Trudeau. I trust he is here."

"I will have to see if he is here tonight. Michelle, go inquire of Monsieur Trudeau is here and wishes to see Monsieur Erik." She said sharply. It was then that Erik saw the former ballerina. She was the girl serving drinks. Michelle scurried toward the wooden stairway. He hardly recognized her. Her posture drooped and her shoulders were thin, though her abdomen bulged slightly. He looked at Madame Rustele suspiciously. It didn't seem right. He hadn't realized until now why Michelle had been dismissed from the opera house. She was pregnant. But why was she here? She wore the attire of a servant. Clearly she wasn't employed as one of the prostitutes. But Madame Rustele didn't have a charitable bone in her body. It wasn't good will that motivated the woman to employ the young woman. She planned on using the girl, if not now, soon. He watched her leave.

"Do you see something that interests you, Monsieur." The Madame had misinterpreted his gaze. "She doesn't seem your type, but I could arrange it for you, if you like." Erik was sickened by the woman's callous attitude toward the young woman, but at the same time, he wanted to talk to Michelle and inquire about her condition, though he knew she may be frightened by him. The incident involving Joseph Buquet had possibly been what brought the situation about. He wanted to know, not that it would change anything. He couldn't dig the stage hand up and kill him again.

"Perhaps after I speak with Trudeau, I will take your offer." He said, noticing the satisfied smile that stretched her painted lips.

"I knew that someday you would be a satisfied client." She gloated.

"I'm not looking for satisfaction, Madame. I want some answers." His reply seemed to disturb the woman.

"What do you want to know? Perhaps I can enlighten you."

"I want to know what a talented dancer is doing in a place like this."

"What do you mean?"

"What is Michelle doing here? She is a dancer, not a servant girl."

"Ah, Monsieur Erik, I must keep the confidences of all my girls. If you wish the services of someone else, I will be happy to accommodate you."

"No, Madame, I do not wish to receive any gifts I can't get rid of." The woman stiffened. Erik smiled at her irritation.

Antoine Trudeau was a balding, middle aged man with an ample girth. He staggered down the staircase with an awkwardness due to intoxication. Michelle followed behind, at a marked distance.

"Monsieur Erik." The man greeted him over brightly. The madame said something mindless, which Erik didn't hear, and walked away.

"Trudeau." Erik returned the greeting without enthusiasm. "I trust that you have what I want."

"It is all here, Monsieur." Trudeau took a sealed envelop from inside his coat and gave it to Erik.

"Good. You have done well. More product will be delivered on Tuesday."

"I ran out of opium before the week was out. Perhaps an extra box would be good." Trudeau said, smiling. His cheerful manner was forced and insincere.

"It is too late for an extra box this time, but next week, it will be there." Erik informed him. Their business completed, the two men parted ways without further comment.

Erik approached Michelle, who was wiping up spilled liquor on one of the four tables. He was uncomfortable with the situation to say the least. How did one go about passing advice to a person who may not want it.

"Do not be frightened." Erik said without looking directly at her. He did not want to see the fear in her eyes. "You were a ballerina at the Paris Opera, weren't you?" He sounded like he was trying to proposition her. He tried again. "I don't mean to be forward, but I hate to see such talent wasted in a place like this." He wasn't improving. She looked at him with a candidness that unsettled him more than he did her.

"I know who you are, Monsieur Erik. You are the Phantom of the Opera." She stared at him, her eyes searching his face. He credited her frankness with being young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. In some ways he was relieved that she wasn't terrified of him. If she had been, he would have understood. In another way he resented her lack of reverence. Fear gave him an edge over the rest of the population.

"Then I should stop trying to buffer the situation and get to the point. I couldn't help but notice that you might be in some... uh, trouble." At that moment, Madame Rustele advanced toward them, abandoning the men playing cards.

"Michelle, you are not here to entertain the gentleman. Go upstairs." The older woman had obtained a sharpness to her voice that irritated him.

"I didn't mean to..." Michelle broke off and hurried to do as she was told. It didn't bode well with him that Michelle would be more intimidated by the madame than himself.

"What do you want with the girl?" The woman demanded.

"I should ask the you same, but I think I already know the answer."

"If she really strikes your fancy, I can arrange it." She said lowering her voice seductively. A memory of another girl, who would rather face death than him, stirred within him. His chest tightened.

"You do that. Bring her to me now." Erik glanced toward a make shift room, partitioned with a heavy scarlet brocade drapery. "And I want extra privacy. Vacate this room."

"You ask a lot, Monsieur, but it can be done, for a price."

"Of course." He knew the price she quoted was unusually high, but the woman wasn't going to collect another cent on the girl, so he paid what she asked. He may have imagined the gloat in the woman's expression as she clapped her hands and coaxed the other men upstairs, but he doubted it.

Michelle descended the stairs a few moments later, unaccompanied. The woman had sent the poor girl to face a fate worse than death and had probably not even warned the child. She _was_ just a child, after all.

"I wanted to talk to you." He enlightened her instantly to alleviate any misconception.

"I know." Erik concluded that the madame had not told her that she'd been sold to him. "What about?" She sat down at a table that was covered with a ruby tablecloth and toyed the frayed edge. The girl looked so young! Her curly, black hair was cut boy-short, wisps of hair falling over green, down-turned eyes.

"You are no longer required to work here, Mademoiselle."

"You got me fired!" Her head shot up.

Erik tried to find the right words. "Not exactly. There is a boarding house where you can live until you find work and can afford a better place. I will arrange for your board and room immediately. I hate to see a promising talent wasted in a brothel."

"I don't need your charity." His own words came from her mouth.

"Yes, you do." He paused. "This is no place to raise a baby."

"There isn't going to be a baby. Madame Rustele says she'll take care of... of It." She looked away. Erik clenched his fists in attempt to control the anger seeping through his veins. Taking care of it didn't necessarily mean she take the baby in her open arms and raise it as her own. To Erik, it meant murder. "You don't understand. I'm no longer welcome in my parents' house." Her chin trembled as she fought to keep her emotions in check. "There are no other options I can think of."

"There are always options. I was born deformed, pronounced a devil on the spot. My mother feared me and her dog was more maternal with me than she was." His face was inches from hers. "But she let me live." Stepping back, he sat in the seat, opposite Michelle. "What's your surname?"

"Montague."

"An affluent family." He acknowledged.

"I've dishonored them."

"They can go to hell." Normally, Erik wouldn't even think about getting involved in a young pregnant woman's life, but he was. He was involved when he witnessed Joseph Buquet groping many of the ballerinas. He was involved when he hung the bastard. Erik hadn't been there to protect her the night young Michelle was attacked. Weeks faded into months. Michelle was excused from the opera. Then, one night as he was delivering a personal note to the managers' office, Erik overheard the drunken stagehands. Buquet was boasting about taking little Michelle in a dark hallway and how he overpowered her struggle. Erik took it as a personal insult that the creepy stagehand would dare commit such an act in his theater.

"I could leave the baby to be cared for by the orphanage."

"Don't be naive. This whole city is crawling with unwanted children."

"I never said I didn't want it."

"Tell me what you want."

She looked at him apprehensively. But, after a few moments, she relaxed. "Honestly?" Her masked visitor nodded. "Even though I wish I never clapped my eyes on Monsieur Buquet, I want to have this baby." Her green eyes shimmered with tears. "I just don't know how I can do it. This baby is a piece of me."

"It is late but if you hurry, you may still get a room for the night. Madame Giry is staying at a boarding house in a modest neighborhood and I believe that she will be a reference if you need one. Here is some money. It will be enough to pay for a room over the next few months." Erik handed her some bills from the envelope Monsieur Trudeau had given him earlier. "Come quickly before anyone comes back. Madame Rustele will be vexed when she realizes that I have pilfered you."

Erik took a lantern from the table and led the way out back through the tunnel. Michelle followed close behind. It still surprised him that she didn't seem afraid. It vaguely occurred to him that he was acting strangely out of character. He felt a little like a protective older brother, and it was freaking him out just a little. She was the only witness to his behavior and no one would believe her. His secret was safe. Tomorrow, he would return to his cagey and sullen self.

"Watch you step," he said as the tunnel became slippery.

"M'sir." A voice came from the darkness. Erik swung the lantern toward the sound. He could only make out a slim figure in the shadows. The voice seemed familiar, though laced with a stern contempt, but at the moment, he couldn't place it.

"Who speaks?" Erik kept his face in the shadow while searching intently for the owner of the voice. A youth stepped closer. "Garrick." Erik was both relieved and startled. "What is your business here, boy?" An unusual length of time passed before the boy responded.

"I am wondering the same of you." It struck him suddenly that Garrick was a little bewildered be seeing him in the company of a young woman for the second time in jutst less than twenty four hours. It was a record to say the least. The young man was probably questioning the intentions of the masked eccentric. Erik had every desire to put Garrick's worries to rest.

"I am escorting this young lady to the House of Clureaux. But perhaps you would assume my errand and assist Mademoiselle Montague." He said, his lips twitching in resistence to a smile. "She is not expected, but you may announce her as a guest of Madame Giry. The madame will receive her, I trust."

"Yes, I will escort her, M'sir." Garrick said, the contempt vanishing in awe of the young girl. He clearly hadn't noticed the telltale swell of her abdomen, Erik decided.

"No!" Michelle stepped back away from the two men. "I will be fine to go by myself."

"But I will be able to protect you. It is dark and you should be properly escorted." Garrick protested somewhat surprised by her reluctance.

"No." The girl stated firmly.

"But, it is not proper for a girl to be out at night without a chaperone." The younger man argued.

"I would rather Monsieur Erik accompany me. I know that he will not let anyone hurt me."

"Why don't you think I can protect you? I am stronger than I look!" Grarrick was obviously insulted and Erik found the situation amusing.

"Garrick, don't feel slighted. Michelle has had an unfortunate experience involving a man. She may not trust you." Erik murmured quietly in Garrick's ear.

"What!" Garrick exclaimed. "Did someone... harm you?" Garrick turned to address Michelle.

"Why did you have to tell him?" Michelle accused Erik. "I do not want to be gossiped about!" She began to cry and shuddered involuntarily.

"Who has done this?" Garrick demanded to know.

"It doesn't matter," said Erik softly.

"Of course it matters!" Garrick shouted.

"Please, just go away!" Michelle said sobbing as she sank down to huddle against the wall of the narrow tunnel. "Monsieur Erik, please, make him go away!"

"Why me!" Garrick objected. "I have done nothing! Why do you trust him more than me?" He gestured toward Erik. Erik should have been insulted by the younger man's blatant implication.

"Because he– he could have– and he didn't." She sobbed. "He was always there in the shadows watching us. But he never hurt anyone. I knew that he killed Jose– " She stopped and looked at Erik. "I am sorry. I never meant to say it. But I knew it was because of me!" Fear etched pain and terror on her face. Garrick stared at him in confusion.

Erik faced them, speechless. It was as though they were talking about someone else. He felt no relation to the man they stared at with such apprehension. It would not serve Michelle well to believe that she was the reason that a man was now dead.

"It wasn't just because of you that I killed him. I was saving my own skin. He was trying to get rid of 'The Phantom' to gain fame and fortune. Monsieur Firmim had offered him a reward to do it." He said flatly. "I am late for an appointment. I must insist that you allow Garrick to accompany you. I have found him to be of exceptional character. We are both now in a position that we must trust him. I have everything to lose if he were to go to the authorities now." He spoke quietly and evenly, his gazed fixed upon Garrick. There was no lack of communication between the two men. If Garrick valued his life, he would remain silent.

Garrick squared his shoulders and offered a hand to the girl to assist her to her feet. She accepted with her eyes lowered and her body stiff. It briefly occurred to him that Garrick was affected by the girl but, the boy did not have the slightest idea how to respond to her. She was simply terrified.

The three of them proceeded to the opening of the storm drain that Erik had used earlier. Garrick lifted Michelle out on to the street and Erik watched them disappear. He waited just a minute before pulling him self up and out, replacing the grid. Michelle and Garrick were a fair distance down the street.

Erik followed for a distance. He congratulated himself for doing a good deed. Michelle would be in the best place possible. Madame Giry would be in communication with others in the business of ballet and theater. After the baby was born, Michelle would be able to continue with her career. The how, where and when would be up to her. He had done his part.

The business along the street were closed and dark. Erik stopped beside the entrance of the bistro he passed earlier in the evening and moved silently into a narrow alley to the back door of the business. A light shone beneath the door indicating a presence within. He rapped on the door three times in steady rhythm and waited. It was just a moment before the door open and a short, rounded, balding man stood back to allow Erik to enter.

"Good evening, Monsieur." The man said.

"Good evening, Francois." Erik returned the greeting. "I smelled something divine coming from your kitchen tonight. What is responsible for tempting my stomach so terribly." Erik smiled at the man. It felt good to allow his face the exercise of a genuine smile. Francois wiped his hands on his big white apron, extending his arm toward a chair near a sturdy wooden table. He regarded the man in the mask with respect and kindness. He was one of the few people who treated him with unconditional fairness. Erik suspected that it was because the man was totally blind. He was a veritable genius in the kitchen, where being able to see had less to do with success than being able to taste and smell.

"I tried something new. The customers seemed to like it. The pheasant seemed a little tough, so I marinaded it overnight in wine and herbs. I saved you some in the oven with some green beans, caramelized onions and potatoes. I know how you don't like to eat red meat, so I thought the bird would more to your liking. I was expecting you last night. Tyrone enjoyed your grilled halibut and creamed peas." Tyrone was the orange tabby in the corner grooming himself.

"There will an opium delivery on Tuesday, as usual. Tell Drew that the price has gone up, just a little bit. Five percent is all." Erik said.

"I'll tell him, but he won't like it." Francois mumbled as he opened the oven using a thick oven mitt for handling the hot tin plate. He set the plate on the table in front of Erik and poured a light wine into two glasses. Erik praised the talent of the chef with the first bite. Erik always enjoyed the company of Francois. They talked politics, history, music and food. Francois was a loyal patron of the opera and a judicious critic. His lack of sight had sharpened his other senses, giving him an excellent memory, a profound ear, and an exemplary sense of taste and smell. Erik supplied opium to the owner of the Bistro, Drew Murdock, but Murdock didn't know that he provided Erik's main meal of the day after the paying customers went home. Francois looked forward to Erik's late night visits, because few others were interested in his opinions or his interests outside what he cooked for them. He lived in a room above the bistro, and never left the little kitchen except for the rare occasion that he attended the opera. The night's conversation eventually got around to the tragedy of the Paris Opera House.

"I heard the customers talking about the fire at the Opera House today. Some think that it was an accident. After all, the chandelier cable was old. Others think that the Phantom of the Opera did it."

"What do you think?" Erik asked.

"Well, if the phantom lived at the Opera, why would he destroy his own home?"

"Maybe he planned on moving."

"Where would he go?" Francois displayed his hands, palms out.

"I don't know. Where would you go if you were him?" Erik found the conversation both disturbing and intriguing.

"I'd stay put and not do anything to draw attention to myself. I hear he was besotted with a soprano, but she loved the viscount. Women will do that." Francois said. Erik wondered just how much the chef knew. For now, they could only speak hypothetically. If the chef knew who Erik was, it was better that he pretend otherwise, for both their sakes.

"Do what?" Erik wanted to know what it was that women did that explained Christine's behavior.

"Women are ruled by emotion. Love is everything to them. Men are logical and reason what is best for them."

"Was there a woman is your past or present, Francois?" Erik asked in an effort to change the focus.

"Oh yes, but she never knew how I felt about her. She married someone else." Francois said. The topic was getting too personal. Erik was reminded that Christine was marrying someone else as well. His stomach clenched in misery. He excused himself, collected the money he'd come for and left.

Out in the cool night air, Erik tried to clear his head. He didn't need a reminder that his love had left him for another. It was an ever present reality, first and foremost in his thoughts. He wondered where she was. Was she happy? Was she safe? Did she think of him? Even though it had only been two days, the minutes seems to drag forever. It still amazed him that his heart was still beating. He hoped the viscount was hopelessly disappointing.


	5. Chapter Five

Meg looked across the table at Michelle suspiciously. It struck her a little odd the way the girl had suddenly appeared and now was seated at _her_ dinner table. Meg knew that it was her aunt's table but _her_ seniority should mean something. It further irritated her that her mother hovered over the younger girl like she was the daughter instead of Meg. Michelle in return was sweet and thoughtful. Until now, in fact, Meg had always liked her. What bothered her was the manner in which Michelle had arrived. The whole thing reeked of Erik. Meg was jealous. Garrick had escorted both girls to their current living quarters. Meg just knew Erik had something to do with it. She couldn't help wondering what else he was involved with. _Who_ he was involved with. She had believed that Christine was the only woman to attract his attention. Maybe he had hundreds of women that were willing to be his and he only wanted the ones he couldn't have.

Meg grabbed a dinner roll, ripped it in half, then slapped butter on it. She took a bite, then sipped some wine. Jealousy wasn't a new feeling to Meg. As a little girl, she smaller than any of her friends. Then Christine became part of the family. And, of course, she could do everything better than Meg. Christine didn't flaunted her talents, but Meg still felt inferior. Christine was a better dancer. She was sweeter. She was poised. She sang. Meg snatched her knife and fork. She attacked her steak. The fork scraped the plate with a high pitch tone as her knife severed the meat.

"Meg, are you feeling alright?" Madame Giry was looking at her daughter with eyes that spoke her intended meaning. Her eyes said, grow up, Meg, and behave as a lady.

"Yes, Mother," Meg said. It would have been useless to explain what she was feeling. Michelle looked at her too but with a look of apology. Michelle sensed Meg's resentment and Meg knew it. She even felt guilty for it. "I am sorry that I am such poor company. I am so tired of sitting around here all day. I feel like I'm rotting here when the whole city is alive and exciting." Again Madam Giry's eyes told her she was behaving like a spoiled child. She would have never said it in public, but the private message was clear. Meg was an accomplished student of her mothers unspoken communications.

"Perhaps you are ready to help out around here. Aunt Clair has been very generous and it is time for you to earn your keep. Until I am ready to open the studio, you will attend to housekeeping." Madame Giry took a tiny, prim bite of potatoes.

"Adele, we have maids." said Uncle Alec, scratching his beard.

Meg lowered her head in resignation, with a sigh. "Yes, Mama."

"I could help her." Michelle spoke up.

"Nonsense, child." Uncle Alec chuckled. "You're a paying guest."

"I am in need of a job, sir."

"We'll discuss it later."

"Meg," Her mother addressed, "As soon as I have the studio in working order, I want you back to dancing. You have a talent and it shouldn't be wasted."

"Yes, Mama." Meg felt like she was eight-years-old again. She didn't have to nerve to confront her mother on the way she treated her like she was incapable of making her own choices. Briefly, she allowed herself to imagine being swept away by a handsome fellow to a faraway dream where she could be pampered in style instead of the physically demanding routines she was accustom to. She loved to dance and found satisfaction in performing, but a lot happened before that first performance. It was often exhausting and sometimes painful to push herself into the grueling workouts. She never grumbled or complained. It just wasn't tolerated by her mother.

The meal continued in silence except for a couple of men discussing politics at the end of the table.

The next day, Meg and Michelle mopped the house's wooden floors after breakfast. Meg tried not to look at Michelle's slightly rounded belly. There had been no explanation as to why the girl was there. They didn't say much to each other. Meg wondered how Michelle knew Erik. Was he the baby's father? Meg didn't think so, but her thoughts strayed toward the possibility. She finished her task and stood to ease the cramp out of her legs. Michelle did the same.

"I guess that I'll dump the water." Meg said.

"No, I'll do it." Michelle offered.

"Alright." Meg conceded and was instantly overcome with guilt. She conveniently stifled it, however, and watched as Michelle took the pail down the stairs and out the door. She watched out of the second story window as the girl walked out to the street to pour the dirty mop water into the gutter. A sudden movement caught her eye. Garrick was half running, half walking toward Michelle. He called to her and she looked up. Meg watched with renewed interest. Garrick approached the girl with a shy grin. Maybe Garrick was the father of Michelle's baby. The thought was more appealing than her former speculation.

Michelle was shaking her head. The exchange was more reminiscent of a couple of shy teenagers than lovers, not that Meg knew much about lovers. There were couples where both worked in the theater and Meg only observed their comfortable communications in comparison to giddy and flirting couples who had just met. Garrick and Michelle fell into the neither category. Michelle's body language was not encouraging him though she seemed to be stealing glances from beneath her lashes. Disgusting, Meg thought. The girl was obviously with child, though Meg hadn't the slightest idea how far along she was.

She'd overheard gossip and conversations between women enough to know that nine months was the traditional time required for full term pregnancy, but outside of that, Meg knew absolutely nothing about babies and where they came from. She had only vague suspicion. For the moment, she also found it irritating that a girl four years her junior knew more than she. She hadn't asked Michelle about her baby or the baby's father. In fact, she hardly spoke to her about anything. And that was about to change.

The scene below had taken on a new dimension. Garrick's persistence had garnered a smile from Michelle and she no longer held herself stiff and aloof. The girl was a disgrace to be talking to a young man in public, especially in her _condition_!

"Oh, Michelle, there you are!" She called out the window. Meg knew her voice sounded fake and unnaturally bright, but it had the desired effect. Michelle said something to Garrick and he turned to leave, while Michelle returned to the house. Meg rushed down the stairs. "I can't believe the way you were speaking to that man in broad daylight and out on the street for pity sake. Have you no shame!" Meg knew she sounded just like her mother or even worse yet—a jealous, self-righteous hypocrite. Her mother would never have said those things to anyone, let alone a sweet-natured girl who was in need of friends and charitable treatment.

Meg had assumed that Michelle had allowed some boy to use her and now carried the burden of her foolishness. But in the back of her mind, it didn't seem right any more. There was an unusual clarity about the girl. Maybe pregnancy did that. Meg supposed that a woman was instantly nominated for sainthood when she conceived a child. But, of course, Michelle conceived a child out of wedlock, so her nomination was tainted.

Meg looked at her and was suddenly ashamed for her words. Tears moistened the younger girl's eyes.

"I am sorry, Michelle. I shouldn't have said that."

"But you are right. It is shameful for me to be seen with a man in public. Your family has been very kind to me. I brought shame on your uncle's establishment by my thoughtlessness. I will not do it again." Her voice betrayed the hurt Meg had caused.

"Don't be ridiculous. You have not hurt anyone. I was just insanely curious about the boy you were talking to. I'll fetch some tea and let's talk." In a few minutes, Meg was sitting across from Michelle at Aunt Clair tea table and pouring tea.

"Thank you." Michelle said politely.

"I am ashamed of what I said to you. I have behaved horribly since you got here. But I have to know something— though I have no right to ask. How— I mean, who—. Who is the father?" Meg blushed as she said it.

"Joseph Buquet." Michelle said, as a matter-of-fact.

"What!" It was the last possible response that Meg expected.

"He forced me." Again, the emotionless statement stunned Meg.

"That's horrible! I'm so sorry!"

"I thought you knew. I thought everyone knew. I feel like everyone is always looking at me and thinking that–. I don't what they think. I just wish that the ground would swallow me up and I could disappear." Michelle said. It was then that Meg realized that Michelle's aura of purpose was really the loss of innocence, trust and hope.

"No! I didn't!" Meg blurted out. Her guilt was compounded. "I can't believe that I thought—!"

"What? What did you think?"

"I don't even want to say it out loud." Meg despaired of her credibility.

"Tell me." Michelle's directness obligated Meg to be as honest.

"I thought it was— was The Phantom." Meg whispered and blushed again. Michelle began to laugh. "Well, I saw Garrick come with you that night you came to live here. I know that Garrick worked for Erik. I mean that— I went with him into the tunnels under the city and—." Meg stopped. She just wasn't sure how much she wanted to share.

"Who did you go with?" Michelle asked puzzled.

"Erik." Meg whispered.

"Why?" Michelle whispered back.

"I don't know." Meg said. To explain her actions would have involved insight that she wasn't sure of.

"What do you mean that you don't know. There must have been something that made you do something you didn't want to do." Michelle reasoned.

"That's just it. I wanted to go. I guess that I was just terribly curious." Meg tried to make her behavior sound reasonable.

"So then, what happened?"

"Nothing really."

"What did you expect to happen?" Michelle wasn't even shocked, and Meg was a little disappointed that the other girl didn't share her sense of adventure.

"I don't know. He kidnaped Christine, you know." Meg wanted to give her little adventure some added weight.

"I know, but what were you thinking?" Michelle looked scandalized. "You followed a strange man into the Paris underground who was of dubious reputation. Again, I ask, what were you thinking?" Meg didn't like the responses she was getting from the younger girl.

"I can't explain it. There was something about him..." Meg broke off. She simply couldn't put it into words. With knowledge of Michelle's awful experience, Meg could hardly blame her for her concern. The two of them sipped the rest of their tea in silence, each with their own thoughts.

Madame Giry made an entrance early that afternoon with the announcement that she had found a room suitable for a dance studio, but there was still much work needed to bring it to a useable condition. Meg was oddly dismayed at her mother's success. It meant that she would be expected to teach instead of perform. Her glory days were over even before they'd begun. She pretended to be happy with the prospect. It was the response that her mother expected and Meg didn't want to disappoint her.

"I shall celebrate our good fortune and buy a new hat. Perhaps you should come with me, Meg, and get out and about some." Madame Giry said, and Meg knew that her mother's invitation wasn't to be declined. "We shall bring you something nice, Michelle." She said kindly. Meg felt instantly sorry for the younger girl. It was her mother's way of saying that Michelle was unfit for public appearance and that she would have to be bought off with a pretty trinket.

"That's is thoughtful but also unnecessary, Madame. I am blessed by your kindness already." Michelle said. Madame Giry smiled at her indulgently and Meg knew that in a way her mother already thought of Michelle as her own daughter in much the same way she had welcomed Christine. Meg didn't feel jealous of the younger girl anymore. She pitied her. Michelle had no way of knowing that she was about to be mothered to the point of suffocation.

In less than an hour, the open carriage bumped along rhythmically. Meg did enjoy being out of the house and her mood was elevated considerably.

She wore a new spring dress dyed rose with a stiff fabric. It was fitted and stylish with the bustle being the latest fashion. Tiny tucks in the bodice gave it a striped effect. It was the first dress she owned that didn't give the impression that she was still a little girl. Most of her previous wardrobe had been cast-offs and make-overs from the wardrobe of the Opera Populaire. She was so accustomed to changing costumes that sometimes she didn't bother to get dressed in what her mother called 'street clothes.' Outside of the theater, this was seen as ill-bred and she conformed to what was expected of her: When in Rome, do as the Romans do. So, when in Paris, do as the Parisians do, which would be to wear whatever was considered at the height of fashion at the moment. She wondered if Erik would like it. He had gone to some lengths to obtain a spectacular gown for Christine that fitted her perfectly. Suddenly, she didn't want to think about Erik being with Christine. It was sickening to think of what he was willing to do for her and Christine had turned her back on it.

Her mother appeared to be enjoying the warm spring afternoon as well. She spoke of the studio and what it was going to take to get it in working order. Meg let her talk. She found the subject uninteresting to say the least, but it was of no use to say anything. If her mother found out that her thoughts rarely left the man that had wrought havoc on their very lives, she would be mortified.

"I understand there is a fine milliner of the name Pierre Grenois. I thought we would go there for a change." Meg only vaguely heard her mother until the name of the hatmaker slowly penetrated her ears and then her thoughts. The name sounded somehow familiar, although she knew she had never seen or worn a hat with his name on it. Some of the buildings were beginning to look familiar as well. About that same time, Meg recognized the name of the milliner's shop. It was practically across the street from the Chinese laundry. Meg felt her heart begin to beat quickly in her chest. Surely her mother would notice. She forced herself to breath deeply and not show the excitement that threaten to burst from within her. Suddenly she felt alive. Every nerve tingled with anticipation. She had never felt such exhilaration. It was with a mixture of shock and delight that she realized the source of her excitement. It was Erik. He did something to her. Just the thought of being in his company filled her with an energy that seemed to lift her beyond her greatest expectations.

Perhaps she could steal away for just a moment to see him. She knew she could find her way to the room where Erik lived. Would he be glad to see her? Probably not, she decided, but she had to see him again. It had been over a week since she'd seen him last and hardly an hour had gone by when she didn't think of him. She played the moments they had spent together in her mind over and over. She pictured him in her mind holding Christine in his arms as he sang the final verse of _The Point of No Return . _His tenderness had held her breathless as she felt her knees go weak before he cut the cord that held the scaffold above the opening that swallowed them.

As the carriage neared the hat shop, she looked for the Chinese laundry. It was there, the same as she remembered. Of course, she couldn't run toward it as she wished. She had to keep her thoughts to herself and follow her mother into the hat shop and pretend to be interested in hats until Madame Giry was sufficiently involved in her purchase that she wouldn't notice if Meg were to wander off. The days of her mother tying a length of twine around her waist and holding on to it so she didn't wander off and get lost were technically over but the grip remained just as firm in other ways. Meg knew her mother's protective instincts were natural and forgave her for them, but the time had come when the cord needed to be cut. She just hoped that her mother wouldn't be hurt when it happened.

It didn't take too long for Madame Giry to get interested in an assortment of ribbon and give Meg her chance. She knew she didn't have very long for her mother would be looking for her in a matter of minutes. She almost ran across the street and into the shed where the door led down the stone staircase. It was dark, but Meg carefully made her way in the dark. A narrow shaft of light shone several feet away illuminating the passage at the bottom of stairway. It was just enough light to see her way to the heavy door. It was strangely still. The only sound was her own footsteps.

She knocked on it as any well-bred lady would but walked in when no one answered. It occurred to her that Erik may be brooding on the other side and not in the mood to answer doors. Who would he be expecting anyway?

There was no one there. She closed the door behind her and looked around. The room was tidier than when she'd left it. The trunk remained in the corner. A few new comforts had been added: a fringed black brocade tablecloth and an oil lamp garnished the wooden table. A large upholstered chair with a matching foot stool was artfully placed near the trunk. Several books were neatly arranged on a low table next to the comfortable looking chair, along with another oil lamp identical to the one on the larger table. The lamps were lit, casting the room in a homey glow. A small wine rack, amply supplied, stood next to the cupboard.

Meg tried not to be irritated that Erik seemed to be doing so well without her. The recently acquired luxuries were an evidence that he wasn't wallowing in self pity, but instead looking to his own comfort and survival.

What had she been expecting? She really didn't know. The dramatic romantic in her pictured him wasting away in grief for his lost love. The practical side of her respected him more that he was not. Perhaps it was true that women were never satisfied. What would she have done in a similar situation, she wondered? The answer came instantly. She would have simply wasted away with sorrow. A sigh escaped her.

The door opened suddenly and without warning. Erik stood in the doorway staring at her as though she was a figment of his imagination. He held a tin pail full of water in one hand and a large linen towel in the other. His wore a white shirt, opened in the front to expose his throat and a narrow area of his chest. His sleeves were rolled up just below the elbow and the legs of his black trousers disappeared under tall polished black boots. His hair was loose and full, without the wig. The mask, he wore, was tan leather, almost fleshed colored. It didn't look anything more or less than a mask, but it lacked the theatrical glare of the white one. He seemed somehow more approachable this way. She had the distinct impression that he had just finished with some light house keeping. If it were possible, Meg found him that much more endearing.

"What the hell are you doing here?" So much for endearments.

"I thought that I would pay a social call, since I was in the neighborhood." Meg said, not about to be put off with his sour mood.

"You did, and now you can leave." Erik said placing the pail on the floor in front of the cup board. The room seemed to shrink with his presence. His head was only inches from the ceiling. "I know you mean well, but I would rather be alone."

"I don't believe you. Everyone needs somebody."

"Please, don't bore me with your 'Little Miss Ray of Sunshine' routine. I am a hermit, content with my own company."

"Then maybe it is I, who needs someone." The words came in a half whisper, for they almost stuck in her throat. He went still, his back to her.

"You do not know what you are asking and _I _don't believe _you_. There are plenty of young men who would court you if you gave them a chance. Whatever fascination you have for me will pass. You are young and impressionable." He spoke, retaining his back to her, his voice seemed somehow lower, huskier.

"Why do you think that I don't know my own mind?" She gathered her courage to continue, her heart beating frantically.

"Because I know what you don't know and I would never burden you with it. It is my cross to bear, my curse. I don't know what I did to offend the Almighty, but whatever it was, it must have been terrible to earn this mark. Do not believe that you can stand in the way of the will of God. You will only get hurt. I know this now and I accept it."

"No! God is not the one who does these things. I cannot believe it!" Meg protested.

"No?" Erik turned to face her now, an eerie calm about him. "Then who? The Master Deceiver? Thank-you, no. I still prefer to think that I am a creation of God."

"But why must everyone make God responsible for everything. Why don't we take responsibility for ourselves?"

"Because, Little Meg, if we take responsibility for ourselves, we have no one to blame but ourselves and we are back to where we started." He was smiling now, pleased with his little riddle.

"I don't understand you." She said.

"I don't expect you to. Half the time I don't understand myself. If I did, it would be easier to be me." He looked at her with a gentleness, that caused her heart to miss a beat. She may have imagined it, but she thought she saw a twinkle in his eye. In that moment, she knew that, indeed God was the creator and He had created her to love this man.

"I must leave, now." Meg said and hurried out before he could reply.

She found her mother only a little impatient with her, when she returned to the milliner's shop. She hadn't really been gone that long, only a half hour at the most, but it had been the moment when her life's mission became as clear as the sun coming up each morning. Anything that transpired for the remaining hours of the day were an inconsequential blur.


	6. Chapter Six

**To all of my reviewers:** :o) **I tried to email all of you but most of my emails were returned. I don't know why.** **Ella O'hara, I Love Gerry, SunnyKorin, Mysweetphantom, J. E. Hill, DragonheartRAB, evilteddybear408, CelestialGlowEquivalence, Kyrene once blood roses and Katherine: Thank you everyone for the great feedback. It means a lot to me, ****Shye Mareck**

If Meg had any plans for her future, they had been postponed indefinitely. The studio was indeed in need of attention, but Meg could see what her mother had envisioned. It was large with a wooden floor. There was only minor damage to the floor and the walls boasted several cracks in the plaster. Several large windows faced the cobblestone street .

It was in an older part of town, but also in a well preserved neighborhood. The building had once been a boarding school for boys but the school had expanded its capacity and changed to a new location. It had a pleasant courtyard in the center of the three story building. The dormitories had been remodeled to accommodate tenants.

Every day the two women took a hired carriage to the studio. Meg was grateful that Madame Giry had hired a contractor to do the refurbishing. In a moment of panic, Meg thought that her mother just might expect her the drudge of doing it to save money. In just over two weeks, the room was finished. The walls were a pale, muted shade of gold. The trim around the windows and doors were freshly painted white. Royal blue draperies adorned the six arched widows facing the street. Six large mirrors had recently been mounted to the long wall opposite the windows and reflected the morning sun. In all, the place was beginning to look quite grand. The floor was polished to the highest sheen. A string quartet had been employed three days a week for an hour. Madame Giry explained that it was all they could afford for now. When their enrollment was increased, they would retain them longer. A list of potential students had began to grow steadily over the last two weeks as well. Madame Giry explained to Meg that she was to take the beginning class of five-to-eight-year-olds every Monday and Wednesday at two o'clock in the afternoon. Madame Giry would take the intermediate and advanced classes.

After the initial shock of being surrounded and out numbered by sixteen children between the ages of six and eight, Meg found that she rather enjoyed teaching. There were four boys and twelve girls in the class. Only one of the boys was enrolled in the class by choice. The other three were the sons of ambitious mothers. Meg felt sorry for them and tried to be pleasant and understanding. Several of the little girls were also there because their mothers had visions of grandeur. A few of the children showed real potential while most lacked the necessary coordination to become great. But one never knew what would happen in the next few years and surprises were ever present. Meg did not want the children to be short changed because she lacked confidence.

One particular little girl caught her attention instantly, six-year-old Julia Ilene Timpson. She was small for her age but nonetheless athletic and strong. She had curly brown hair with golden highlights and a light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her disposition was always cheerful and unspoiled, in contrast to a couple of other girls, Caroline and Jacqueline, who were almost nine and considered themselves to know more than the teacher. They had been taking ballet lessons since they were five and were almost as dedicated to the art as their mothers. They were cousins. Meg had learned the on their first day. She soon found out that they announced this to every new acquaintance. They worked hard and yet still lacked the grace and fluidity to be more than average.

They particularly wanted to do the more advanced steps and exercises which Meg forbade them to do. Some teachers pushed the little ballerinas to stand on their toes. Madame Giry had been especially strict with Meg and not let her do it until she was eight and closer to nine. Caroline and Jacqueline's former teacher had allowed this and Meg feared they had damaged their bone structure which would cost them later.

After the children went home, Meg practiced her own routines, finding that the physical exertion did wonders to expel the frustration she felt in her personal life. She hadn't gone to the room under the laundry since she'd deserted her mother in the milliner's shop to see Erik. For the most part it was because she had been busy getting the ballet school started, but also, with the realization that she loved Erik, came the fear of more rejection. It was as if there were a magnet drawing her to him, but it was, in some respect, in spite of her rather than because of her. In many ways it would have been easier to love one of the eager dandies who approached her almost daily.

Her opportunity for social contact had broadened since no longer did she confine herself to the sanctuary of the Paris Opera House, however much she longed to. Instead, she found herself as an audience member at the less prestigious, but still popular, Théâtre du Châtelet. There seemed a certain smugness within its structure as though the building itself said, I told you so! Before Charles Garnier designed the Opera Populaire, as a gathering place for those wanting to see and be seen, Théâtre du Châtelet was the finest Opera Paris had to offer. Now, with the Opera Populaire in ruins, the older opera was enjoying renewed success. Madame Giry and her daughter were in regular attendance at least once a week, usually on a Friday or Saturday evening.

"In this business you have to see and be seen or people will forget you," Madame Giry explained to Meg on one such event, "and we need to be present at these performances if we expect our school to be a success. People aren't going to trust the future of ballet to people who do not care enough to attend." So, Meg attended faithfully.

She met many people who recognized her from her work at the Paris Opera and realized that she had a small group of admirers. Most were young men, who offered her everything from dainty baubles and horses to marriage proposals. Many were handsome, wealthy and charming. She should have been pleased by the attention. He mother even said so after Meg had politely tuned down a supper engagement from a gentleman. She had instantly forgotten the man's name so she didn't even know what her mother was talking about when she scolded her for her lack of interest.

"Monsieur Dublan is of outstanding reputation, Meg, and, if I may say so, a comely man. Why did you turn him down?" Madame Giry asked one Saturday morning after they had been to a performance of _The Magic Flute_.

"Who?" Meg asked absentmindedly.

"Monsieur Reginald Dublan. He is a fine catch for any girl."

"But I don't want him." Meg said flatly.

"Why not?" Madame Giry looked her daughter squarely in the eyes, trying to garner more information than Meg was willing to give.

"He is soft and pallid."

"I don't think we are talking about the same man, Meg." Madame Giry looked even closer in her daughter's eyes and face. She put a hand to Meg's brow. "Are you feeling well, dear? I assure you we are not talking about the same man."

"I am sorry, Mama. I don't remember him." Meg confessed.

"Well you are in luck. You have another chance to remember him. I have accepted an invitation from him to both of us to a party to honor his sister who is about to be married. I believe this will be the event of the season in Paris. It is a masked ball. Everyone who is anyone will be there. We don't want to miss it."

"Why is it so important that we be there, if no one will know who we are any way?" Meg asked stubbornly.

"At the end of the party, everyone will unmask. It will be an stimulating evening for a young person, such as yourself. You concern me with your lack of interest." Madame Giry spoke with genuine distress. Meg did not want to give her mother cause to worry, so she agreed that the party was a fine idea to lighten her spirit. Seeming satisfied, Madame Giry continued on about what they would wear and Meg detected some girlish delight in her mother's voice as she talked about the masquerade. It would have been extremely selfish of her to not go. Madame Giry was flattered that her daughter was receiving such attention from a worthy gentleman. Meg could not deny her mother the pleasure of such a prestigious event.

The night of the masked ball manifest itself all to quickly for Meg. She masked her reluctance with a white kitty cat mask she made herself. Bleached white ostrich feathers, carefully placed, almost had the appearance of real cat fur. The triangular nose was made of polished amethyst. The whiskers were made of the finest broom straws she could find. In all the effect was curiously attractive. Her dress was white with the exception of the lavender stomacher, gloves and hat she wore bearing the same shade as the amethyst. Her skirt was full with ruffles layered one above another. He hair was pinned up in an intricate twist with half a dozen ringlets falling over one shoulder. She felt pretty and credited the feeling for the flush in her cheeks.

Her mother wore a feline mask as well. It was an orange and black striped concoction representative of a tiger. Dyed fur gave the mask its distinctive colors. It blended well with Madame's choice of gown, an orange creation covered entirely with black lace. Wide, black ruffled lace graced the low neckline It was sleeveless and long black satin gloves covered her arms up past her elbows. Meg had never seen her mother in anything like it, and said so.

"And you never will again, darling." Her mother laughed gaily. "I plan to make an early escape before the unmasking."

"I thought you said–." Meg began before her mother cut her off.

"Never mind what I said. That was before I saw this delightful little piece at Madame Balmforth's." Madame Giry giggled. Meg stared.

Aunt Clair and Michelle beamed as the other two women seated themselves in the carriage that had been sent for them. The driver bowed and introduced himself as Edwin, Monsieur Dublan's personal driver.

"Monsieur Dublan awaits you at the house of his sister's betrothed, the Marques Stuart Fairmont." Edwin told them. Meg felt the excitement in spite of herself. It was hard to avoid. She had never been invited to a party outside of the opera before. There were days when she longed for it as a child, and she wanted to enjoy it.

They were taken to a grand house on a hill above the city of Paris. The formidable structure was alight and alive with party goers. The first thing that Meg noticed were the grounds. Blooms of every color and fragrance adorned the walk up to the white stone mansion with arched windows and carved ornamentations. A butler extended a white gloved hand to receive their written invitations. It made the Girys all the more pleased to be invited. Only those with an embossed invitation would be allowed though the great double doors.

Inside, gold chandeliers and candelabras made the place as bright as midday. Meg had never been inside a private residence so aristocratic. The furnishings were delicate works of art with white and gold paint. The settees and chairs were covered in crushed blue velvet. The ballroom had a marble tile floor with a large lily motif in the center. Other rooms boasted exquisite carpets. Heavy periwinkle draperies with gold fringe hung about large windows and vases containing lilies were every where. Meg was curious about the featured bloom until she learned the name of the bride-to-be. Lily Dublan was a golden haired child of seventeen, wearing a mask of glittering stones and silver. Meg was seized upon by the girl soon after walking through the door.

"I know who you are." She giggled, after excusing herself to Madame Giry and pulling Meg into a tiny area with a bay window shrouded with plants. "I insisted that Gordon, our butler signal to me when you arrived. I was such a fan of yours when you were at the Opera Populaire. I love the opera and I saw you the other night at the Théâtre du Châtelet with you mother, I believe. I wanted to meet you. I think we could be friends. I told Reggie to invite you here tonight. I hope you aren't disappointed that it was me instead of my handsome brother that invited you."

"Not at all. It is my pleasure to attend such a grand party and I shall enjoy myself all the same." Meg said.

"Oh, there is Reggie, now." Lily said. "He is probably wondering where you are. We should help the poor fellow out." Reggie, as it turned out, wore a very realistic mask of a wolf and formal clothing almost identical to every other man in the room. He bowed low, kissed the back of her hand and growled appreciatively. Meg smiled in spite of herself and began wishing that she had remembered what he looked like behind the mask. He smiled revealing dazzling white teeth. The mask did not cover his mouth or classical jaw line. His eyes were brown and twinkled from behind the mask. She could make out tiny laugh lines around his eyes. Lily made her apologies and went about greeting the other guests.

"I am honored that you accepted my invitation this time, Mademoiselle." Reggie said pleased with himself.

"Ah, but your sister claims to be the one who invited us." Meg countered.

"Yes, she did suggest it. After all, it is her engagement party. But I voluntarily invited you to supper with me, and you declined. Even now, I suspect that Madame Giry is the one to accept our invitation, not you, so we are even on that score." Reggie said grinning.

"Are you a clairvoyant?" Meg joked.

"I am reading your thoughts as we speak." He said gruffly into her ear.

"What am I thinking, right now?" Meg asked as her stomach rumbled and she laughed.

"Yes, I hear your thoughts and they say, 'Feed me, Monsieur.'" He said pretending seriously to consider his answer. Meg laughed. "Let us find the refreshment tables and I will satisfy you." He said, offering his arm. Meg took his arm and allowed him to guide her to a room was prepared with tables and chairs for dining. The food was laid out buffet style. Meg saw a woman who had a familiar look to her, near the buffet. On closer inspection, she recognized Christine behind the jeweled mask. When she heard the woman speak, Meg knew, without a doubt, that it was her friend.

"Oh, Christine, I thought it might be you!" Meg exclaimed joyously.

"Meg? Is it really you?" Christine reached out and clasped Meg's hands in hers. "How I have missed you. We must talk. Raoul, you remember Meg." Christine turned to the man beside her.

"Yes, How do you do, Mademoiselle" Raoul, wearing a mask identical to Christine's, bowed slightly in acknowledgment. It was then that Meg remembered Reggie.

"This is Monsieur Reginald Dublan, brother to the bride-to-be." Meg introduced him.

"I am pleased to meet you." Christine said genuinely. Raoul nodded his agreement.

"The viscount, Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daae." Meg said.

"No longer, Christine Daae, but Viscountess de Chagny." Christine beamed and held up her hand to display a dazzling gem on her left ring finger.

"Oh, Christine. This is so wonderful!" Meg hugged her friend tightly.

"Congratulations." Reggie said shaking Raoul's hand.

"Thank you." Raoul said.

"There is so much I want to tell you." Christine said earnestly. The two young women sat down at one of the small tables to talk. Reggie excused himself on a reasonable note that his sister may need some assistance. Raoul drifted away after a few minutes, realizing that Christine wasn't going to pay him any attention for the time being.

"Meg, have you heard any more about...about the phantom? I worry about him. He scares me, and yet I cannot forget him." Christine lowered her voice and held Meg's gaze with her own.

"Christine, I have seen him and talked to him. His name is Erik." Meg admitted.

"Oh, Meg, be careful. You do not know what he is capable off." Christine warned.

"I know that he is capable of being hurt. I think that he is capable of loving someone more than himself." Meg knew her words sounded harsh and she tried to soften them. "He cares about you still."

"I am not strong enough to love him. I can't deal with his tempers and his possessiveness. He is so intense about everything. I can't bear it." Christine spoke in hush tones and her voice wavered as emotion choked her.

"Why not? He will not ever be free of you." Meg whispered harshly.

"I will never be free of him, either. I feel him when no one is there. His voice plays in my head and I think of him every day. I have to live each day knowing I that I betrayed one who loved me to the point that it made him mad."

"He is not mad!" Meg defended.

"Then how do you explain what he did?" Christine demanded.

"Maybe you brought out the worst in each other." Meg said.

"Exactly so!" Christine agreed.

Music began to play and Raoul quickly claimed his partner. Meg found herself alone and wondered where Reggie was at the moment. She decided that she liked him. He didn't make her heart race but he was good company. She went back to the ballroom to see if he were anywhere in sight. Madame Giry was dancing with a gentleman in a bear's head. His formal coat and white tie barely distinguished him otherwise. Then she saw Reggie in his wolf mask and went to chide him for deserting her.

"There you are, Reggie. I thought you had found someone you liked better. Are you going to ask me to dance?" Meg teased. He bowed politely, stepped out toward the dance floor and offered his hand. Meg placed her hand in his white gloved one and allowed him to pull her in to his arms. His arms held her firmly and she felt his muscular shoulder beneath her hand. It felt good to be held like and this and she allowed herself to lean in to him ever-so-slightly. She stifled a contented sigh and let her head rest on his chest.

"So, who the hell is Reggie?" He murmured in her ear. Meg jerked her head up and looked into the eyes of the man who held her. Blue eyes, not brown, regarded her. The voice, also, was all too familiar.

"Erik!"

"I see that you know who I am, but who is Reggie?" Erik demanded. "Come, don't act so startled, people will think that Reggie has offended you." He pulled her gently back into her arms and resumed their dance.

"Why are you here?" Meg asked, already knowing that he was here because of Christine.

"I enjoy a good waltz and the company of women when they don't know who I am. I have enjoyed several masquerades in my time. More so in my younger days, but this is a fine show if I may say so." Erik said. He was a good dancer and Meg had wondered where he'd learned how to dance so well.

"How did you get in? I mean– we had an invitation." Meg said inanely.

"Oh, yes, I am an uninvited guest. Are you going to call the police? Your little friend removed my mask. It might work for you, too." Erik challenged.

"Of course not! I would never do such and thing and besides, I am glad you're here. I came to this party dreading it and yet I have enjoyed myself immensely." Meg said, and on impulse, again, leaned into him. This time he held her there with the slightest pressure. The song concluded as a faster beat took its place, a bounding two-step. Erik swung her around and around pulling her with him. She never missed a beat though she had to work to keep up with him. He was smiling when the song came to an end and she realized that he was breathing as hard as she was. The next dance was a quadrille.

Erik led her out on the terrace and down a curved stairway into the heavily scented gardens. Night had arrived in style. The stars glittered above accompanied by a half moon. Strategically placed torches lit the stone path that winded through expertly groomed hedges and lawns. The patio below the terrace was lit in part by the light that emanated from the spectacularly lit ballroom and by gaslight lamps positioned on each corner.

"I do not wish to trade partners with rapscallions. Walk with me." Erik said. They wandered through the gardens without speaking, each absorbed with their own thoughts. Meg placed her hand in the crook of his arm and followed him. She wanted to asked him if he was here to see Christine and yet, in her heart, she knew the answer. If he didn't know she was here, Meg didn't want him to know. She really didn't want him thinking about Christine at all.

"Who's Reggie?" Erik asked suddenly.

"He is the brother to the bride-to-be. I just met him tonight." Meg answered.

"Do you know the bride?"

"I just met her tonight, as well."

"That seems curious."

"My mother accepted the invitation on our behalf." Meg explained.

"Christine is here." He said disengaging himself from her and looked out upon the city from where they stood.

"I know."

"She looks well. Don't you think?" He said, his voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Yes, I thought she looked very well." Meg said and removed her mask. She wanted him to see her for who she was. Her heart ached that he would be thinking of someone else when she was standing right beside him.

"You will be missed. Reggie will be looking for you."

"I don't care if he is. I would rather be here with you. Take of that ridiculous wolf's head. I don't like looking at it." Meg said, pouting a little as she'd seen other girls do when they were working their wiles on a gentleman. This was the first time Meg had ever done such a thing and she was shocked by her own action, but it worked. Erik removed the furry, grey headdress. He wore the white mask she had found in his lair the night of the 'famous disaster' or one very similar to it.

"Yes, milady." He said bowing deeply. "Are you practicing your coquetry upon me, Mademoiselle?" He teased lightly.

"I don't know what you are talking about." Meg lied.

"Oh, yes, you do, Margaret. It was a mistake for me to bring you here. Reggie will be expecting you. I will walk back with you, at least part of the way." He turned and held out his hand to her. "Come, now."

Meg hesitated, but slowly took his hand and placed it on her waist. Before she changed her mind, she raised up on her tiptoes and put her mouth to his. He stiffened but did not pull away. She touched the tip of her tongue to his bottom lip. Suddenly his grasp tightened and he pulled her to him, kissing her deeply, roughly, drawing from her the sweetness she offered him. She let her mask slip from her fingers onto the soft wet grass so they could glide over his shoulders, up the back of his neck, and trace the magnificent outline of his jaw. Then, without warning, he pulled away from her, gasping.

"What in Hell's name do you think you are doing?" He growled between gasps. Turning, he walked a short distance away with this back to her, leaning forward as though he was in pain.

"Erik!" Meg called out to him, startled and frightened. Had she hurt him?

"Go!" He shouted at her angrily and began walking away in great strides. She tried to follow him, but very soon she lost him in the darkness.

Meg ran back to the great stone mansion almost blinded by tears. He mother was the first to see her and hurried to meet her on the patio. It didn't take long for her mother to sum up the situation, escort her along the back of the house and out front to where a carriage waited. Madame Giry returned to the party just long enough to express their regret for cutting their evening short.

Once back in the carriage with her daughter, she demanded to know what had happened. Meg could only shake her head and sob. He mother grew more insistent that Meg tell her the source of her grief.

"Did anyone harm you?" Madame Giry demanded. Meg shook her head. "What on earth has happened to put you in this condition? Did this involve a man?" Meg didn't respond. "Just as I thought. Did Monsieur Dublan have anything to do with it?" Meg realized at the moment that she couldn't breath a word about Erik, let alone what had transpired that night. Reginald Dublan was the only possible way out, so she nodded. "Did he bother you, or behave inappropriately?"

"No, Mama, he didn't bother me, but I don't want to talk about it anymore. I will feel foolish if anyone ever found out what I did."

"What, pray tell, did you do?" Madame Giry was scandalized.

"I told you, I don't want to talk about it!" Meg cried out. She settled into corner of the carriage and let the tears fall.

By the time the carriage arrived at Aunt Clair's, Meg had stopped crying and achieved a measure of composure. Her mother was silent and Meg knew that she was imagining the worst. Meg was preparing herself for bed when Madame Giry brought her a cup of warm milk. Meg drank the milk, then crawled between cool crisp sheets. Her mother sat down on the edge of the bed looking at her solemnly.

"It is a hard thing to fall in love, Meg. We have never talked about what happens between a man and a woman, when they have feelings for each other. Perhaps I have waited too long to tell you these things. But if you have had feelings for Monsieur Dublan, I assure you that they are normal and you shouldn't be frightened." Madame Giry spoke gently.

"I don't want to talk about this." Meg said firmly.

"I understand, dearest, but you are a young woman now and things have changed. You cannot deny your self the joy of being married and having a family. This is what life is really about. We will talk in the morning, when you feel better." She brushed the bangs away from Meg's forehead, kissed it and pulled the coverlet up to her chin and tucking her in as she had often done when Meg was younger. "Goodnight, Darling Meg." She said blowing out the flame of the oil lamp.

Erik recovered from the shock of the kiss, some time after Meg had returned to the party crying. His senses reeled. He had no idea that she could do this to him. He'd actually been enjoying her company and the dance they shared, which was why he led her out to the garden. While he had attended the occasional masque and danced with many women over time, he'd never spoke with them outside the usually pleasantries one exchanged with strangers. Certainly he would have never done what he did tonight with Margaret Giry. But she'd expressed herself as wanting to be his friend and he was enjoying the companionship. After so many years of solitude, he was allowing himself to indulge a little.

The poor bloke who had left the party to answer a call of nature and foolishly left his wolf mask outside the door of the lavatory was probably the "Reggie" Meg spoke of. Erik replaced the mask with one of his own, a crow's face, made from real crow feathers. He liked the wolf mask and felt that it was an even trade.

In reality, he was there to see Christine. The Fairmont estate was known for lavish parties and masquerades. The Viscount de Chagny and the Marquis had been classmates and childhood friends. In the rumors surrounding the event, it was to be the event of the season. Servants gossiped and thieves, hiding themselves in the tunnels under the city, made it their business to know about such events. They probably didn't know that sound had a way of traveling in corridors and Erik was aware of what transpired above ground, often whether he liked it or not. This was above and beyond the detail that the upcoming engagement party had been published in the society column of Paris's most popular newspaper. Erik had no doubt that Christine would be there. He recognized her even though she was masked. The way she moved was all he needed. She looked as happy and vitally alive, as he remembered. It was with dismay, Erik realized that she was content with her choice. For weeks now, in his dreams, he imagined that Christine would return to him and yet he knew that she never would no matter how much he wanted her to.

In spite of himself, he returned to the spot where Meg had kissed him. Her white kitten mask was still there in the grass. The wolf mask lay facing it, a few feet away as though it too yearned for something. Erik kicked 'the wolf', sending it flying, and picked up the kitten mask. It smelled faintly of Meg's perfume. He buried his face in its feathery softness.


	7. Chapter Seven

Two days after the masque, Meg received a letter from Monsieur Dublan. She read it aloud to Madame Giry, Uncle Alec, Aunt Clair and Michelle over afternoon tea.

Dearest Meg,

With deep regrets that your evening was spoiled, I humbly beg your forgiveness. It was my error that caused your discomfort. If you aren't too vexed with me, please have dinner with me this Saturday evening. Write your response to 73 rue Charlot, Paris.

Your humble servant, Mr. R. Dublan.

"He is such a gentleman, Meg. You will write to him." Madame Giry observed.

"I'll think about it." Meg said.

"Don't take too long to think on it. He may think that you're not interested." Her mother warned. Meg didn't want to further Madame Giry's curiosity about what her mother referred to as "the incident." For now, Monsieur Dublan would have to bear the burden of her foolishness.

Meg motioned for Michelle to follow her out of the room. The two girls stood to leave.

"There is some writing paper in the secretary, right over there." Aunt Clair said motioning toward the polished desk. Meg collected the necessary ink, pen and paper, and started, again to leave.

"Write the note here, Meg. You might spill the ink." Madame Giry cautioned.

"Mother, I'm not five-years-old any more. Let me be!" Meg was shocked by her own impertinence. The room went silent. "I'm sorry, Mother. You are right." Meg sighed inwardly. When would she ever find it within herself to defy her mother without instantly backing down?

"No, you are right, Dear." Aunt Clair said and waved Meg away with her hand. "You are a good girl. You won't spill the ink."

"Thank you, Aunt Clair." Meg said genuinely grateful.

"Adele, you need to let up on the girl. She is not a child." Meg heard Aunt Clair saying as she and Michelle made their escape up the stairs to Meg's room.

Once inside, Meg closed the door and faced the other girl.

"Michelle, I have to talk to you. I have to talk to someone or I will go mad. The other night at the masque, I slipped away from the party with someone, who wasn't Monsieur Reginald." Meg looked at Michelle watching for some kind of reaction, shock, dismay, horror or relief. Michelle just stared at her blankly. "And I kissed him!" Meg confessed throwing her hands up in the air.

"You're going to spill the ink." Michelle said, taking the bottle from her.

"Is that all you can think about, right now?" Meg demanded, miffed at Michelle's lack of concern.

"A kiss isn't going to leave a permanent stain." Michelle answered evenly.

Meg stared at her. "I suppose that it is hard for you to understand. You've never been in love." She said in a superior tone. Michelle looked wounded and Meg felt like kicking herself.

"I'm sorry, Michelle. I am horrid! Please don't be angry with me. I need to talk to someone and I can't talk to mother about this. She would die of horror."

"You can talk to me, but you are right. I don't know how it feels to be in love. I may not ever know what it is like. Men frighten me." Michelle confessed in a half whisper, her eyes filling with moisture. Meg put her arms around the younger girl, rocking her gently as she let the tears fall. In time, the flow of tears subsided and the two girls faced each other, Meg sitting on a foot stool while Michelle occupied the only chair in the room.

"What am I going to do, Michelle? I can't lead Reginald on like this. It isn't fair to him."

"Talk to him. He'll understand." Michelle answered.

"How do you know this. I would be furious if someone did this to me!" Meg countered.

"I remember him from some years ago. I know his sister. We went to school together. She is only a year older than myself. He always seemed pleasant enough then, but I don't know him intimately.

"You do know him then!" Meg clapped her hands together, elated.

"I know who he is." Michelle corrected.

"Then you know more than I do. I've never seen his face." Meg said guiltily, her color rising.

"Oh! That is funny, Meg! He is very handsome." Michelle began to laugh and Meg joined in. Soon they were overcome by fits of laughter. This caused Madame Giry to investigate.

"Do control yourselves, Ladies." She said opening the door to Meg's bedroom and Meg sensed that her mother was still offended by their previous exchange. "Loud laughter is vulgar in women." She said, as a parting remark. Meg and Michelle stifled their mirth long enough for Madame Giry's footsteps to be heard going down stairs, then they were again reduced to bouts of hilarity.

Meg related the episode in the Marques's garden, with Erik and "the kiss", in great detail to Michelle. It felt good to share her secret and Michelle was a good audience. The younger girl's eyes lit up with wonder as Meg described the mansion, the gardens, the music, the dancing and the people in attendance.

"Lily is so fortunate to be marrying the Marques. Who would have know it when we were children. She was such a scamp. She was always up to something. One day, Lily was being punished, for something I can't remember. Her mother had her sentenced to stay in her room, not even allowed to go to school, and took away her shoes. Well, Lily took one of the family's horses and rode it bareback... and barefoot... to school. The headmistress sent her home, of course." Michelle laughed at the memory.

"How well did you know Lily?" Meg wanted to know.

"Just as acquaintances. I told you, she was a year older. She was always kind and polite, but we weren't confidants. I always admired her spirit though."

"You liked her well enough?"

"Yes, of course." Michelle answered, puzzled. "But I don't see what that has to do with anything. If you are in love with Erik, Monsieur Phantom, what do Reginald and Lily Dublan have to do with it?"

"That is where things get perplexing. Mother thinks that I love Reggie, because I let her believe. It would never do for her to know about Erik. I must tell Reggie that I love another. But how?" Meg lamented. "I was thinking that perhaps Lily could tell him, or I could write him a note." She joked.

"Accept his invitation and tell him. It's the only way." Michelle said.

"I was afraid of that." Meg moaned. "It was so much easier, living in the opera house. I didn't have to think about courting and men. Mother wouldn't allow it. She watched me like a hawk."

"You were lucky." The other girl said clearing her throat.

"Yes, I suppose I was." Meg agreed. "Help me write to Reggie. I can't spell worth a hoot and my handwriting is dreadful."

Michelle agreed to help. Between the two girls, it proved much harder to compose the reply than Meg thought. Each time she came up with something, Michelle would comment that she was too forward, too harsh or too vague. Finally, Meg relinquished the task to Michelle, and watched in wonder as she penned as follows:

Dear Monsieur,

I have only myself to blame for a spoiled evening. I wish for you to convey, to your sister Lily my deepest regret for leaving so abruptly. I really did enjoy myself in spite of my ill-timed departure. I will humbly accept your earnest invitation so that you will know that I wish, for us, to put this disagreeable event behind us. Sincerely Yours, Margaret Giry

"You represent me well, Michelle. Thank you." Meg sealed the letter with sealing wax, and carried it to the mailbox.

Throughout the week, Meg found very little time to think about the dinner engagement and, subsequently, she almost forgot about it. The one person she did think about was Erik. She felt sick at times remembering his reaction to her kiss. He wasn't entirely unaffected by passion and she was glad of it, but clearly he didn't want her and didn't want to be affected by her. It hurt and sometimes the sadness weighed upon her heavily.

If things weren't bad enough in her life the Prussian invasion that had begun earlier was taking its tole on her existence. Paris was no longer a carefree place to be. Soldiers in uniform, carrying weapons were seen everywhere, both Prussian and French.

The little girls in her ballet class were feeling it too. Little Julia cried one afternoon, because her father was a military officer and had to go away, because he was taken prisoner by the Prussian army. It proved to be too much for Meg. She broke down and cried with the little girl. Her inability to be a pillar of strength for her students shook her. By Thursday, the Giry School of Ballet closed its doors on orders of the French military. Schools all over the city closed their doors. Theaters closed. The cellars of the Paris Opera House were being used as holding cells for prisoners.

The Prussian occupation had created a tension that threatened to erupt in a civil war as well. The local militia and the workers of Paris had begun to unite, in protest of the French government's inability to crush the Prussian aggression. The were calling themselves the Paris Commune, and intended to seize control of the capital city.

Until now, Meg's life and been surrounded by illusion. Everything about the theater, Meg's world, was designed to distract from the cruelties of reality. Wars and fighting were choreographed like a dance, keeping in time with the music. Actors "died" just before curtain fall and by the next scene were having their make-up repaired for the curtain call.

Now the conversations all had turned to the war. No longer was it the subject of speculation and newspaper headlines but skirmishes and reported bloodshed were factual. It wasn't that they hadn't been real for a long time but for Meg it just hadn't been happening outside her front door until now.

By Saturday, Meg was so disheartened that she dreaded meeting with Reggie. He was a decent sort and deserved someone who cared about him the way she cared about Erik. She dressed for their dinner together with care. She would tell him tonight that she had feelings for another, but she wouldn't insult him by looking less than her best.

Her mother smiled her approval when she saw Meg in a pink and white satin gown with a low, off the shoulder neckline. The bodice was completely covered in columns of fine white lace that angled in toward the center of the waistline. The white overskirt was scalloped with fuchsia satin roses at each peak. Wide fuchsia ribbon was sewn in the middle of the lower pleated ruffle, giving the skirt a many-layered look. The train trailed behind her grandly. The dress had been a lucky find at Madame Balmforth's dress shop. A dainty reticule and hat completed the fashionable ensemble. A customer ordered it but could not pay for it and Madame Giry bought it for a modest price.

When Reggie arrived, Meg walked down the stairway to meet him. He was dressed in the French military uniform. He truly looked magnificent. Black wavy hair was thick beneath his hat. He was taller in his black polished boots that she remembered. She wanted to weep when she saw him. He was so young. Not a day over twenty-one. War was such a waste! His handsome face was serious. Dark, deep set eyes below dark brows regarded her openly. His mouth was chiseled and firm. Yes, he would be a fine catch for any girl. Any other girl. Meg still couldn't feel anything more than sisterly toward him. Guilt that he was fishing in a dry stream weighed heavy in her chest.

"Mademoiselle Giry, you take my breath away." He said bowing low over her hand.

"Thank you. You are a dear to pay me such a compliment, Monsieur. I must say that you honor any lady that finds herself in your company tonight." Meg said honestly.

"I only desire the company of one such lady, Mademoiselle." Meg privately wished that he was a cad, a lech, a thief or a liar, anything that would justify what she was going to do tonight.

Madame Giry beamed her pleasure as she witnessed the scene at the bottom of the stairs.

"Monsieur Dublan, it is so good to see you again. I hope you and Meg are safely entertained this evening." She made her presence known and glided down the stairs with a youthful grace that surprised her daughter. Madame Giry was the one taken with the young gentleman, Meg decided. Not that anything would ever come of it. Meg knew that it was simple feminine appreciation for an excellent representation of the opposite gender. She narrowed her eyes at her mother anyhow.

"Madame. I am privileged by your consent to court your daughter. I assure you that I have a safe and chaperoned evening planned. We will be dinning at the Mairie de Paris at the Hotel de Ville. Edwin, my driver, will be with us whenever we are not in public. He is the father of three daughters and is protective of all young women. Indeed, I don't know why I still employ him. He lives to keep me honest." Reggie teased with a glint of mischief in his dark eyes.

"I am not in the least bit worried. I know a gentleman when I see him." Madame Giry replied evenly.

"Shall we be going?" Meg interjected. If she remained there any longer she would scream. It was going to be bad enough to dissuade Reggie without having to disappoint her mother as well.

"Yes, go now and have a good time." Madame Giry almost pushed them out the door and Meg was again reminded that her mother was going to be mighty displeased.

The sun hovered on the horizon as Meg stepped into the carriage. Edwin, the promised chaperone, nodded and removed his hat to her. She smiled at him, sensing that Reggie was right about the driver. He looked to be in his early forties. His daughters were probably a handful contributing to the greying strands of hair at his temples.

The Mairie de Paris was a tribute to the gilded clientele that patronized the place. Meg felt strangely disqualified to be there, but putting on her best effort she remained in character. She carried herself with grace and dignity as Reggie escorted her through the great dinning hall to a small table for two. Eyes watched them. Meg felt them. It would have been rude for her to return the stares so she let her eyes remain on her companion. She was carrying the act a little too far perhaps, because Reggie seemed particularly pleased with the attention. She lowered her eyes and looked peaked at him from beneath her lashes and blushed when he looked into her eyes with open admiration. Things were just not going as she planned. She should have gotten a standing ovation for her role as the coquette, but instead she felt terrible.

"Reggie, I–." She began but couldn't bring herself to say the words. The evening was just getting started. There was no point in ruining it sooner than necessary. He looked at her expectantly. She shook her head and looked down at the white table cloth. A sadness came upon her and Reggie seemed to sense it too.

"You look worried, Mademoiselle. Is there something wrong?" He asked concerned. She looked at him letting her eyes say what she could not. Yes, she was sad. "Is it the uniform? I am a lieutenant now. I thought you would be pleased." He sounded hurt.

Meg shook her head not knowing what to say. "Yes...I mean no!" She tried to repair the damage by forcing a smile. It didn't work.

"You do not support the French government." He accused.

"I do. Of course, I do. But there is fighting..." She broke off.

"Of course there is fighting. There is a war on!" He looked indignant. She felt foolish. She knew there was a war on. Did he think she was stupid?

"I know there is a war on!" She retorted dropping the act of the coquette. "War means that people die. Do you think that I want you to get yourself killed?"

"Do you think of me as so inept that I can't take care of myself in battle?" She'd wounded his pride. She liked him but it was coming through that he was unseasoned in the art of life. How could she answer him without hurting his feelings again?

"I can only tell you that I would pray for your safety and survival. I can't bear the thought of you lying somewhere wounded and dying." She told him earnestly. That did it. He smiled at her, genuinely pleased with her response.

"You would pray for me then?" He asked.

"Of, course!" It was the least she could do.

"Then I shall fight bravely with the knowledge that with you and God on my side, I will remain undefeated!" He declared boldly. He was an idiot, Meg concluded silently.

A menu was brought to them by a waiter and Meg silently thanked the man with her eyes for saving her the effort of responding to Reggie's declaration. In spite of Meg desire to change the subject, Reggie had no such inclination.

"You must remain indoors until the revolt is suppressed and do not associate with revolutionaries. They are dangerous people. If the French government finds out that anyone is harboring political enemies, they will be tried for treason. I cannot tell you very much at this time, but I must warn you that things are heating up and there will be people arrested. I wouldn't want you to be caught up in this and put you and your family in danger." He said after the waiter left with their order.

"I don't know any revolutionaries." She replied honestly.

"It is just as well that you do not. I shall be better able to serve my country knowing that I do not have you for an enemy." He smiled at her, though Meg felt that she'd just been given an ultimatum.

She now knew why her mother had once said that one should never discuss religion or politics. It was a dead end. She still liked Reggie but she knew that they would never be able to agree on the war. In private she supported the people of Paris, the working class. She was one of them although she hovered between the two worlds of the gentry and the working social class. Wine was brought to their table and the waiter filled their glasses.

Meg had never been one to drink, with the exception of a single glass with dinner. In fact, her mother forbade it, citing the perils of addiction. Reggie evidently didn't feel the same. She wouldn't fault him for it, if he behaved himself, she decided.

The five course meal was served on gleaming china and silver. The food was well prepared. Meg enjoyed the braised lamb with dill sauce while Reggie attacked his steak with gusto. She couldn't fault the man for having an appetite, even though she was seeing more to find fault with, if she was so inclined.

When they had finished their meal, Reggie offered her his arm, and for once Meg was truly grateful for the support. Three glasses of wine had been all she had imbibed, but it affected her more than she'd realized when she stood up and began to walk. The floor had shifted or one leg and become longer than the other. Either way, Meg's perception was faintly disoriented. Reggie didn't seem to notice and Meg wasn't about to tell him that she was probably drunk.

Edwin didn't take them straight back to the House of Clureoux, as Meg expected. Instead she found herself exiting the carriage in front of a Russian tea house. Since she'd never been to one, it seemed like an interesting alternative to the dinning room at the Hotel de Ville. The tea house was almost dark in contrast to the dinning room at the hotel. A single candle illuminated each small table. A group of about four larger tables were on one end of the rectangular shaped room. These were lit by oil lamps placed in the center of each. A boisterous crowd hovered about the tables, mostly men. They were playing cards, Meg observed. The dim light was reflected in the haze of smoke spiraling from their cigars. Every chair in the room appeared occupied at first. But as her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior, she noticed that the farthest end from the larger tables, there were several tables vacant.

"This place is doing a jolly business tonight. We won't stay long. I just wanted some of the fellows to meet you." Reggie said pulling her along behind him. Meg wasn't sure how to take this latest development. He wanted to show her off like a prize he'd won. His friends were also young men in their twenties, but even the youngest of them had five years on Reggie. There were four of them and they too wore the uniform of the French military. Meg didn't want to make unfair judgements but they seemed unsavory sorts and she was disconcerted that Reggie considered himself one of them. He was an innocent, she surmised. He wasn't one of them, but perhaps aspired to be. It would be natural to seek approval of ones peers. His earnest manner, however, betrayed his idyllic values. Never once had he gazed upon her with the raw desire as they beheld her now.

Reggie introduced them calling them by name, although Meg couldn't remember their names even as he said them. They smiled at her and she returned their smiles. To rebuff them might provoke them and she didn't think that Reggie would be any match for them should they decide to make any overtures. Her fears were unnecessary. They cheered Reggie's good taste and Meg found a glass thrust in her hand. She smelled it find that it had no distinctive odor. She had no idea what it might be, but it was certainly not tea. She didn't know what exactly she expected to find in a Russian tea house, but tea was a high possibility. The tiniest taste warned of a high alcohol content. If three glasses of wine made the floor shrink away from her as she walked, this would probably have her in a stupor. She pretended to drink it and smiled weakly at the soldiers. They leered in return.

"Let's go sit over there." Meg said gesturing toward the unoccupied end the room. The soldiers seemed more inclined to stay where they were. Reggie obliged and Meg sat on the chair he held for her. He sat opposite her and she noticed his eyes flickered toward the men briefly. She wondered momentarily if he would have preferred their company to hers. There were no other patrons seated in the far end, save one. Meg didn't see him until she sat down. He sat in the corner. A hat and cloak shrouded his form. Seven tables were unoccupied in the far end, while the other was crowded. It seemed strange that more people didn't make use of that part of the room.

"Meg, I am so pleased that you came with me tonight. I will be joining my company tomorrow. I hope that you will write to me. If you write to the address that I gave you earlier, it will be forwarded to me where ever I am." He waited for her answer.

"Of course I will write to you, Reggie." She said after only waiting the tiniest bit too long. He looked taken aback when she didn't reply immediately. But what could she say? To tell him now that she loved another would be cruel. The poor boy was going to join his troupe in less than 24 hours. He might be killed before she saw him again. Wouldn't it be better that he died believing that someone tenderly mourned his death. She searched his face now for some hint of the future. He was young, boyishly handsome, strong and vibrantly alive. She would mourn if he were to die. Tears welled up in her eyes. She blinked them away.

"Why do you cry?" He asked, taking her hand in his own.

"I was thinking..." She sniffed and took a handkerchief from her reticule. "I was thinking that war is such a waste. I do not want you to die."

"I will not die." He said solemnly. He was such a dear, foolish boy, she thought and dabbed her eyes. "Do not be sad, Meg. It is wrong for a soldier to ask a girl to wait for him, so I won't ask. Neither would I ask you to sacrifice your virtue for a night of passion. But I ask that you let me write to you. It means so much to a soldier that someone is there even though they are far away. When I am alone or frightened, I will think of you and you will give me courage."

"Yes." She said. To say more would have been to prolong the morbid conversation, and he'd successfully redeemed himself in her eyes. For a moment she thought that he would ask her to become his virginal sacrifice.

The thought instantly made her think of Erik. He'd asked if that was her intent in following him that night when she followed him into the dungeons of the city. If he were to ask it now, her answer would still be in the negative. But for different reasons. It would not be a sacrifice to love him, but would make her whole, if he would only let her.

The atmosphere of the tea house had changed suddenly and Meg dragged her thoughts away from Erik. The soldiers, whom she'd met earlier, were suddenly brandishing weapons and shouting at a group of men. Reggie leaped to his feet pulling her with him.

"Revolutionaries! Get out of here!" He shouted and half dragged her toward the door. Before they reached it, however, a barrel of a man blocked their path and put his fist in Reggie's face. Meg screamed as Reggie crumpled to the floor.

"Edwin!" She screamed, remembering the driver. Someone grabbed her from behind. The smell of liquor assaulted her nostrils. Her stomach threaten to retch. She tried to break free, but the grasp that held her was firm. She was lifted into the air and carried. Edwin came rushing in and saw her first. The stricken look on his face told her that her plight was hopeless. "Get Reggie! He's hurt!" Edwin looked to where her gaze lead and saw Reggie in heap on the floor. His gaze returned to her in confusion. "Get Reggie!" She ordered again and this time, he obeyed, lifting Reggie's limp form under the arms and dragging him out the door.

Swords clashed. Men swore. Women screamed. Grunts, groans and a few cheers sounded dimly through the blood pounding in her ears. She kicked at her assailant, but to no avail. She heard a sound that may have been just a whisper over her head, and suddenly the grip went slack. She was sliding to the floor. Her legs wouldn't hold her, though she tried to stand. Again she was being lifted. The room was suddenly still as though everyone was paralyzed as she. She cried out again.

"Don't fight me." The words were whispered in her ear. Arms cradled her. Relief washed through her and she wept, the tears blinding her.

"Erik!" Her fingers went to his face, searching for the mask. It was there. The leather was soft. She caressed it.

No one made a move to stop them as Erik carried her out the door and into the cool night air. She was only vaguely aware of Edwin as he held the carriage door open for Erik to put her inside. Erik hesitated after setting her inside.

"Please, don't leave." She whispered her plea, placing her hand on his chest. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the palm.

"To what end?" His eyes met hers with piercing intensity. Was he angry with her?

"Please, Monsieur. It would be safer for the lady." Edwin advised. They all looked at Reggie. He was lying on the seat of carriage, opposite Meg, pale and unconscious. It was clear that he would be useless for some time.

"If he wakes up too soon, I will have to knock him out again." Erik said grimly to Meg after climbing into the carriage. "I don't relish the idea that I might have to explain myself to the over-eager upstart." But he reached out and took hold of Reggie's wrist to check his pulse. "He'll live." The younger man grunted in reply, then sighed as though he was in a pleasant slumber. "He likes to drink, does he?" Erik commented scathingly.

Meg didn't feel like defending the younger man at the moment. On impulse, she rested her head on Erik's shoulder. He didn't resist, and neither spoke.

Meg wondered if this was all she and Erik would have together, impromptu encounters and nothing more. Why didn't he push her away now as he'd done before? Had something changed? As they neared the boarding house, she summoned all her courage to speak her thoughts.

"I don't want to go home."

"Where else would you go?" He asked softly.

"Anywhere."

"Why?"

"I just need some time to think. Mother will want to know what happened tonight. I don't know how much I can tell her. She may hear of it eventually from other sources. I don't want to face her right now." She said. Perhaps her logic was flimsy, but it was all she could manage for now.

"You might just tell her the truth." He suggested wryly.

"Even the part about you saving me from a fate worse than death?"

He chuckled. It was the first time she'd heard him laugh. "Is that what I did?"

"Well, because of you, we won't have to find out." She said defensively.

"You're flirting with me again. Didn't the last time you practiced your wiles on me teach you anything?" He said gruffly.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it did." She replied. He hesitated only slightly when she didn't elaborate.

"What did you learn?" He said as the carriage stopped in front of the boarding house.

"That I liked it when you kissed me."

"I should tell your mother to keep a better eye on you. You will have every man in the city going insane with jealousy."

"How can you say that?" Meg objected.

"I just sat through an evening where I had to listen to you and Reggie carrying on and now you want me to add myself to your list of lovers. How much do you think a man can take?" He sprung the door open and almost jumped out as though he was trying to be free of her. He held her hand as she stepped out, closed the door to the carriage and nodded to Edwin. The carriage drove away leaving them in the dimly lit street.

"I do not love Reggie." She said as Erik turned from her. "He's just a boy."

"And you're a girl. It should all work out for you." He said with his back to her.

"Did you hear me? I don't love Reggie and I'm not a child." Meg said as he walked away.

"I am very much aware of that. Go inside, before you start another riot." He called out as he disappeared in the thickening fog.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Thank you, everyone, for the lovely reviews. They do mean a lot to me. I have emailed several of you but some of them were returned. I replaced chapter 2 because of a nasty typo and hope you enjoy this next chapter. IloveGerry, I hope it is fluffy enough without being "over the top." **

Meg opened the front door to the House of Clureoux as quietly as she possibly could without alerting anyone to her presence. The foyer was empty. She almost made it to the top of the stairs when she came face to face with her mother, who was headed in the opposite direction.

"Meg, I didn't hear you come in." She said pleasantly. Meg braced herself for what inevitably came next. "What on earth happened to your hair... and your dress? Margaret Adele Giry, what have you been up to?" It was never a good sign when Madame Giry called someone by their full name.

"Mother, you're not going to understand. I don't want to talk about it and I have a headache."

"You've never had a headache in your life. Now, tell me what happened to put you in such disarray and foul temperament." Madame Giry commanded. "And where is Reginald? Why didn't he come in with you to bid goodnight? Where is that boy's good manners?"

Meg should have known that her mother would never give up and she hadn't been able to successfully lie to the woman in all her nineteen years.

"There were some revolutionaries that were causing a commotion and looking for a fight. One of the brutes punched Reggie in the nose and for all I know, he is still out cold!"

"Oh, Meg, this is terrible. Where did this happen? Are you hurt? Is Reggie going to be alright?"

"I think he will make a full recovery soon. Edwin will see to him." Meg said trying not to share any unnecessary details.

"Oh, the poor boy!" Even Madame Giry wasn't accusing him of being a man, Meg noted, but held her tongue. The less she said to her mother, the better. "I'll come and help you undress." She said. "The dress will wash and it doesn't look torn. That is good." Meg was actually relieved that Madame Giry seemed more concerned with the condition of the dress than with her daughter. If she were to know of Meg true disposition she would be shocked. Even Meg lacked the vocabulary to express it. How did one describe the feelings that were born of rejection. Anger, indignation, humiliation, confusion, frustration. There should be a word that embodied all those things.

Meg washed her hair and was brushing it out when Michelle knocked on the door. The young woman entered upon Meg's welcome.

"I heard about the revolutionaries." Michelle said quietly, as though unsure of the wisdom in bringing up the incident. "How is Reggie?"

"I think he will be alright. Edwin looked after him and he didn't say anything about him being seriously hurt." Meg said dispassionately.

"You're being rather insensitive about this. Don't you think? Did you tell him you're not interested? Poor Reggie has been through so much." Michelle said.

"You sound like my mother."

"Did you?" Michelle also had Madame Giry's persistence.

"I didn't. I couldn't! He is going to war. How could I tell him that I don't feel anything more than a sisterly affection for him. He could die and I would have to live with a guilty conscience for the rest of my life."

"How terrible for you." There was just enough sarcasm in Michelle's tone as to not to be offensive.

"What was I supposed to do, Michelle? Let him know that he is too immature and self-assured for my taste? I do like him well enough as a friend and really I didn't want to hurt his feelings...which is easily enough accomplished!"

"What did he do to inspire such ire."

"He asked me to write to him while he is serving his noble country. How could I say no? But I can't do it. Michelle, you have to help me. Write to him. You are so much better at such things than I am."

"I can see that I must, for if it were left up to the likes of you, our soldiers would have nothing left to hope for. They would turn themselves over to the enemy and beg to be put out of their misery."

"What are you talking about? I didn't tell him that I don't love him. I'm doing my patriotic duty." Meg defended.

"Your sacrifice is appreciated. I'm sure."

"You mock me, but you don't know what it has cost me." Meg lamented.

"What could allowing a man to believe that someone cared whether he lived or died have cost you?"

"Erik heard it all. I didn't know it was him. He was sitting in the corner and he heard my promise to Reggie. He was there when Reggie was knocked out. It was he that saved me from the ruffian who grabbed me. I heard a sound that hissed just above my head and I was released."

"The punjab lasso." Michelle gasped.

"It may have been. I didn't see it." Meg confessed.

"He saved you from the revolutionaries? That is very dashing and romantic." Michelle sighed.

"Hah! Except that he implied that I started the commotion. I don't think he likes me much. He knows that I was leading Reggie on, and he thinks I'm a woman who takes extra lovers."

"Oh, dear." Was all Michelle could supply in the way of comment.

Erik was a little early for his usual appointment with Francois. Accompanying Meg home had put him in the neighborhood earlier than he'd planned. The Bistro was only a few blocks from the boarding house on the same street.

The blind chef was instantly wary, when Erik knocked. "Who's there." He called out. Erik didn't respond. It was his way. Anyone else outside the door that knew Francois was blind would identify themselves. Erik didn't have that luxury. If Francois was not alone, it would be an uncomfortable situation to say the least. Erik knocked again, with a plan to hide himself in the darkness if necessary. The door opened. "Who plays pranks on old Francois?" The chef demanded angrily.

"You're not old, Francois. A little crusty and bad tempered, but not old." Erik teased.

"Get in here, you scoundrel." Erik laughed and entered the shabby kitchen. "Would you like some tea, coffee or wine?"

"Wine would be welcome right now." Erik said taking off his cape and hat.

"Do I sense that my old friend is having a bad day?"

"What? Now you think that _I'm_ old? Don't include me in your delusions of old age!" Erik protested without rancor.

"You are showing the signs, my good man. You've mellowed and that is always the first evidence."

"Bah! I'm monstrous as I always was." Erik debated weakly. "Though I shall have to mend my ways or you will think that I've gone soft and take advantage of me."

"It is you who takes advantage of me. I cook for you and it has been so long since you played the violin for me." The chef complained though his protest lacked bitterness.

"Then I will have to play for you tonight." Francois wasted no time in bringing the old violin to his friend. Erik took a drink of wine before plucking the strings. It had been a long time. The violin was badly out of tune. Deftly, he tightened the strings and brought the instrument into precise pitch. He put the bow to the strings and at once the violin and the man became one, each an extension of the other. Without hesitation or question the instrument did the bidding of the musician and the musician became the instrument of the tune. It felt good to play again and Erik let the melody take over, dictating his movement. The more he played, it became a release for his heart's pain. When the song ended he started another one, a passionate aria from one of his favorite operas. He continued playing until almost an hour had passed. The final song being a haunting, beautiful melody in a minor key. Erik often played with his eyes closed as it was easier to let the music to do it magic without the distractions of the visual world. He opened them now to see Francois with tears streaming down his face.

"Mendelssohn." Francois said, correctly identifying the composer of the final piece. "It does my heart good to hear you play. My poor ears suffer all day either from silence or the gossip and whining of the customers. But business has been so bad lately that I actually miss it. I have some cheese and bread, but it has been impossible to get fresh poultry or fish. The army is the only buyer of fresh meat these days. About all I can get is mutton so I have mutton stew to offer and little else.

"Your mutton stew is better than the fattest beef or lamb anywhere else. I do not feel slighted. I suppose that we're in for some hard times all around. If I am to dine on mutton stew for a year I should not complain. There are people with much less." Erik said taking a bite of the promised stew.

"There you go again, getting all soft. There is talk about the uprising. Do you think that The Commune will succeed?" Francois asked.

"They will succeed in making war. They are fools. They do not have well organized leadership. Their weapons are crude and they are poor. If they last a week in battle against the Prussians, I will be surprised. The French and the Prussians will unite against the commune and the people will be defeated."

"But the people have a right to protest a Prussian invasion." Francois argued.

"I'm not saying that the working class don't have a position. I'm saying that they lack qualified leadership and means to accomplish their goal." Erik said.

"It is a disgrace that the French army is in opposition to the very people who pay for their support and are hired to protect."

"That is where you are wrong. The army was never meant to serve the people. It is meant to serve those in power. And keep them in power." Erik argued.

"France will become a true republic yet, like America." Francois said dreamily. "If The Commune is successful, the people can rule themselves."

"There will always be the strong who will prey on the weak. Communism is just an economic philosophy and will only serve a utopian society and that instantly suggests strict mandates and oppressive rule. And the United States of America has a capitalist economy with their own problems. They are still recovering from a civil war over their states' rights that lasted five years. America is an infant, compared to France, and has to withstand many growing pains yet." Erik finished his stew and rose to leave.

"It has been good to visit with you again, Erik. You make me think." Francois said.

"Good evening, Francois. I have work to do and must not tarry."

"Do not forget this, Monsieur." Francois said, handing him a sealed envelope.

"Oh, yes. Thank you." Erik took the envelope and noted its weight. Though meat and other perishables were a scarcity, within the city, the aristocracy did not deprive themselves of their opium. They were even willing to pay the slight increase in price.

Although the British sought to control the opium trade either for cited health concerns or for profit, the French didn't seem to feel as threatened by the drug. Also, while the Brits tried to control the flow out of India and the far east, Erik promoted a finer quality product distilled in Persia. Rather than the course product that was customarily smoked, Erik dealt a high grade liquid in an alcohol base. It could be mixed with a beverage and the amount easily controlled. His biggest clientele were doctors who routinely prescribed it to treat everything from colic in infants to cancer. While Erik's little business was not illegal, there were those who wanted it to be controlled by the government and not private enterprise. Erik also undersold the merchants looking to make large profits, and he had the bottled product packed in cases and delivered to local business where the customers could simply have a flask or small bottle filled. It was inexpensive, untraceable and discrete. The product was transported from Persia along with the beautiful carpets and textiles the Parisians loved. Erik arranged for the opium tincture to be delivered on specific days of the week by Hassan, a Persian who accompanied the merchant caravan. Hassan brought only the amount of product ordered. There was never a surplus that needed to be stored.

Erik remained in the shadows after leaving the Bistro. The fog had lifted and a full moon illuminated the locality a little too well. There was an unusual amount of activity in the street. Police seemed to be on every corner. He picked his way through the back alley toward the storm drain between the Bistro and the House of Clureoux. A policeman stood on the very grid that would have been his escape route. He should have not have stayed so long with Francois.

He wasn't exactly trapped. In fact he had several choices of how he could get back to his underground apartment. He could backtrack and go several blocks, past two policemen, to another storm drain, a smaller one that was nothing more or less that a large ceramic pipe barely large enough for him to slide through on his belly until it merged with a canal designed for sewage. Not his favorite option. Continuing in that direction would lead him further from his intended destiny. He could play hide and seek with armed policemen and walk through the streets, or he could stay where he was in a narrow ally between two large houses. With the strain and threat of violence, the police were quicker to pull the trigger than ever. If the mask wasn't a dead giveaway to his identity, the deformity would be for sure. Erik couldn't depend on the war distracting them entirely from the still recent disaster at the Opera Populaire and the renown, Opera Ghost.

Several of the old houses had cellars that would inevitably lead to where he wanted to go, the oldest being the House of Clureoux. He knew it had a cellar that lead to the tunnels but it may have been blocked off. The underground passage was remarkably well preserved and relatively unknown. But whether or the not the doorway was passable remained a mystery. There was only one way to find out. Another advantage of going to the House of Clureoux, was that the occupants would be less likely to turn him over to the police, should he be spied en route.

It wasn't near so difficult as tedious to prowl through people's back yards. Dogs especially were a nuisance. The little ones actually were more of a threat than the big ones. They were difficult to see in the dark and more inclined to bite. In many cases he could pacify the dog by being friendly. Although he'd managed to avoid any yards with dogs in them, thus also avoided being bitten, half a dozen hounds had begun to alert the neighborhood to a presence, his presence. Three people had stuck their heads out their windows and commanded the dogs to be quiet. Naturally, the dogs continued to sound their warning. It was a matter of time when someone would investigate a disturbance.

Erik cleared the brick wall into the modest garden and looked for the exterior door to the cellar. It was there with a short stairwell leading down to it. The door was barred from inside. To break it down would be self-defeating. There had to be another way. He knew that many of the houses had an interior and exterior access to their cellars. If he could get in through a window, finding the cellar would be easy enough. There was still a risk that the entrance to the tunnels would be blocked even if he made it into the house. It wouldn't serve his purpose to act hastily. There wasn't so much as a flicker of light in any of the windows of the house. The kitchen door was firmly bolted, from the inside. Four small balconies were evenly distributed across the second story. Their distance suggested one for each room, probably bedrooms. Each balcony had double doors with glass panes. Only one was open. Naturally it was his first choice. Getting to it presented a problem, though not an impossible one. He couldn't quite reach the balcony floor by standing or even jumping.

The Punjab lasso. It would be the second time this evening that he would find it invaluable. Ordinarily the Punjabis used a fine silk cord or rope fastened to the lead weight on the end. Erik, however, had discovered piano wire. It was stronger and in some ways easier to manage than rope. It was thin and undetectable in a pocket or even carried coiled around his hand. He swung it carefully now to get the desired momentum before striking the wrought iron railing of the balcony. The lead weight continued the momentum, wrapping the wire neatly and firmly around the railing. He wrapped the wire free end of the wire around his gloved hand once and pulled himself up onto the balcony, and stood against the wall, after retrieving the lasso. The door remained open but he hesitated, knowing that as soon as he stepped it front of it, he would cast a shadow and alert the one inside to his whereabouts. He hoped whoever it was that occupied the room was asleep. He listed for the sounds of snoring. Breathing. He heard breathing, but not the long drawn out breathing of one asleep. It was shallow and quick.

"Who's there?" Someone asked hushed and frightened. It was Meg. Erik almost laughed with relief. She pushed the door open wider and stepped out to where he could see her. Before she could scream, he clapped his hand over her mouth, but he should have been more concerned with the object in her hand that she used to club him with.

Erik stifled a string of curses, grabbed her arm with his free hand and twisted it behind her back. Quickly he stepped into the room, pulling her with him. The darkness of the bedroom was safer than the illumination of full moonlight. He wrenched the object from her, holding it up to the window for what light it could give. It was an iron poker for the fire place. Fortunately, for him, she only hit him on the side of his head, instead of goring him with it.

"Shhhh." He breathed. "Don't make a sound and nobody gets hurt." She was trembling. He'd frightened her near to death. In all fairness, he'd deserved it when she whacked him on the head. She was no longer struggled, but leaned softly against him. Slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth and turned her around to look at him. He put his index finger to his lips and smiled reassuringly. If she was indeed as infatuated with him as she thought she was, she wouldn't scream or rat on him. But it was in his best interest to be his most charming.

"We meet again, Mademoiselle." He soothed. "What luck, have I, that brings me to your delightful chamber? I must implore upon your gracious nature to help me get out of here through the cellar." He barely breathed the words. A multitude of emotions flickered across her face in an instant before she slapped him on his unconcealed cheek.

"What the hell did you do that for!" He hissed. Unsure of she might do next, he imprisoned her again in his arms, holding her arm behind her.

"You come in here like you did, and expect that I should help you!" Meg whispered harshly.

"I admit that my time and method of arrival leave a lot to be desired, but I need your help. I thought that you wanted to be my friend." He said.

"I don't believe you. If I hadn't been awake, you wouldn't have needed my assistance at all. You're trying to mollify me so that I don't scream and wake up the entire household." She continued to keep her voice at a whisper, though it was clear to Erik that she wanted to scream at him. "If you trusted me, you wouldn't be trying to charm me. I have made known my feeling for you and now you use it against me!"

Erik released her and moved away, watching her warily. The simple white gown she wore was not designed to entice a man, but the way she filled it out was. It didn't help that her eyes sparkled with passion, reflecting in the full moonlight. He must not let her see that he was affected by her. The way he responded to her kiss in the Marques's garden was enough for him to know that if he were to allow it, he would be powerless over his own desires. She was a woman with all the attributes that any healthy male longed for. He was no different in that aspect. But another woman still haunted him and until she was gone, he was unfit to love another. He would not use Mademoiselle Giry to satiate his desire for another. She deserved more than he was able to give her.

"You are infatuated. You have discovered your feminine intuition and the power it gives you over the gullible male species." Meg lunged for him. Erik caught her hand before she struck him. "You have struck me twice and though I have never condoned hitting a woman, the third time might change that." He said, and Meg was immediately made aware that she may have gone too far.

"You implied that I am a loose woman. I have never..." She stopped unable to find the words to continue.

"No, Mademoiselle. You are not a loose woman, but you are young. Now you imagine yourself in love, but have you thought of having to look at this for the next forty years?" Erik pointed at his mask. "Or this!" He stripped off the mask and stood before her breathing raggedly.

"I have thought of it. I have dreamed of it. It does not frighten me." She faced him only inches away, her anger undisguised in her whispered reply. He replaced the mask. Even though she didn't recoil as he expected her to, he was uncomfortable being exposed.

"I must find the cellar. Time is short and I have things to do." He said abruptly. "If you will not help, then so be it."

"I will help you. Follow me, but take off your boots. They will make too much noise." She said. Without further debate, he obliged, sitting down on the edge of her bed to carry out the task. If she was to only have little memories of him in her life, this would be one of her most treasured. There was something oddly intimate about him sitting on her bed and taking off his boots, and she had to take what little pleasures came her way.

Erik followed Meg down the stairs and into the kitchen. Erik hastily put his boots back on and Meg lit two candles. She handed one to Erik, before descending into the musty cellar. Meg had never been in the cellar before and from the looks of it neither had anyone else, for a long time. The room was fairly large though it did not run the full length of the building. Cobwebs drooped heavily and low. They were so old even most of the spiders had abandoned them. There wasn't a single window in the room. Crates, chests and old furnishings were randomly placed through out the room. Meg shivered and stopped.

"Doesn't anybody come down here?" Erik asked with some surprise.

"I don't think so. Jacques uses the large pantry for storage and a burlap chill box. I don't think Aunt Clair ever comes down here. Uncle Alec never even gets as far as the kitchen."

"I believe that the passage runs north and south along the street and joins up with the one connecting the church, and the convent." Erik said to himself. "There is the door leading to the back yard, so that is east. This house is less than a 100 years old which is still relatively new by some standards and there wasn't a decent house built for twenty years after the revolution that didn't have an underground exit. It has to be here." He began searching the perimeter of the room and stopped before a tall stack of shelves on what he determined was the north wall. The passage way should have been on the west. A heavy old dining room table stood in front of it. "Help me move the table." He ordered. Meg complied.

Just as he suspected, the heavy wooden bookcase was really a door. It groaned in protest, as Erik pulled it open. The chamber behind the door had all the charm and ambiance of a tomb. Erik stepped into the room with a grin and held the candle higher. The room was definitely part of the original construction, finished with kiln fired brick on the walls and floor. Even the ceiling was expertly plastered. The room was approximately a hundred forty feet square and almost empty, a bench being the only furnishing. A heavy door occupied the nearest corner of the west wall. It was locked. Erik reached into his pocket for a tool he'd made himself out of an old pewter spoon and expertly picked the lock. The passage was there as he knew it would be. Satisfied, he stepped out into the dark corridor.

Meg followed. Erik turned to face her, blocking her path. "Goodnight, Mademoiselle. I thank you for an unparalleled evening." His voice lacked the sarcasm his words implied. His intent was to make his escape without further offending her. He failed.

"The next time you climb up to my balcony, it had better be because you want to make love to me." Meg muttered the words under her breath as he turned away. She barely whispered them, not expecting that he would hear. He stopped suddenly.

"If I did, would you really let me make love to you?" His voice was sharp.

Meg stopped, embarrassed and unsure of how to answer. "How can I answer that? If I say yes, you might believe that it is something that I would do thoughtlessly. If I say no, you will think that I am a tease."

"You _are_ a tease. I profoundly recommend that you do not say things that you don't mean." Erik said as a final command and strode away from her for the second time that night.

The tunnel led, as Erik expected, to the passages joining a church and a convent, which, in turn, lead almost straight to the chambers beneath Madame Rustelle's brothel. The irony was not lost on him, but he'd never noticed a heavy presence by the clergy in the subterranean world. His room under the laundry offered a cool and welcome sanctuary. He lit a lamp, using the candle Mademoiselle Giry had given him. The floor plan of a four story apartment building lay scrolled up on the table. He would work on the exterior view.

Phineas Claude Peroux, a young architect, had successfully bid on and won Erik's design for the same hotel he'd offered Charles Garnier. Perhaps he would appreciate this design as well. A distant rumble, following a distinct vibration rippled through the city. Erik grabbed the oil lamp that threatened to vibrate off the table. The rumbling quickly subsided. He listened for the sound of falling rocks that would signal a cave in outside his door. It wasn't a cave in. It was a distant cannon. Another muffled blast and the echoing rumble vibrated though Erik's hidden domain. The reality above had taken a nasty turn. Erik grimaced, but replaced the lamp and went to work. It wasn't his war.


	9. Chapter 9

The facia and cornice of the proposed building were too narrow to balance the height of the building, Erik decided after looking over the drawing several times. The popular stye of the Mansard roof was also giving him cause for concern. The steep slope allowed for extra space either for storage or inexpensive living quarters but the flattened peak weakened the integrity of the entire roof. If there was any assurance about a flat roof, it was that it would leak. Maintenance would become a problem over time. The aesthetic value was pleasing, though, and the arched dormers, jutting out of the roof, gave the windows a certain human element like arched brows over watchful eyes. White ornate cresting embellished the roof like a daintily worn tiara.

Erik leaned back and let his head fall backward on the high back of the chair, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was tired. Each time a cannon went off, it sounded as thunder and reverberated through the earth. If he were to be completely honest, he didn't care whether the people of Paris or the Prussians and the French army won the fight. He just wished they would stop bombarding the city with their cannons. The causalities of the war would inevitably include some of Paris's finest structures. His following thought brought him back to the apartment building. If the fools upstairs insisted on tearing down the city, he would rebuild it.

He continued to work through most of the night. Around five o'clock in the morning, the cannon fire stopped briefly and Erik put his drawing tools away. The feather tick was an inviting consolation to his tired back.

Sleep did not overtake him instantly, as he wished. Visions, unbidden, crept into his consciousness. _Mademoiselle Giry played an active role. Christine watched from the side. Meg Giry had become the all too grown up Margaret. She toyed with him as he drifted in and out of slumber. She danced about him, graceful and lovely, her costume wispy and nymph-like. Erik pretended not to notice. Christine was the one who's love and attention he longed for. He searched for her and saw her watching. But she did not appear envious that her friend was dancing for him. Quite the opposite, she seemed pleased. Her lack of jealousy angered him. Perhaps he would give her something to think about. Boldly, he reached for the lovely Margaret, but she spun away from his grasp. Startled, he looked into her eyes for an explanation. The pain reflected there surprised him. Who would have caused her such grief? Though he followed her, she continued to dance just out of reach. Soon they were so far away that he could no longer see Christine. He panicked, running back to where he'd seen her last. She was gone. He called her name; she did not respond. Because he was distracted by the beautiful, blond ballerina, his Christine was lost to him._

Erik woke to the sound of his own voice, calling Christine's name. His heart was racing and he felt clammy. Beads of perspiration cooled his forehead. He willed himself to be calm. It was a nightmare. Waking to the realization that he was alone both eased and frightened him. The old feelings of abandonment haunted him. Christine would not return. He knew it without a doubt. But why did he feel that he was being unfaithful to her when Margaret Giry stirred his blood. What hold did Christine have on him? She had made her choice. Would there ever be a time when she did not haunt him?

He thought of Mademoiselle Giry. She was not frightened of him. That was evident in the way she struck him when he attempted to charm her. She'd confessed that she was attracted to him. What did she see in him that fascinated her? When he climbed up to her balcony the previous evening, he really didn't expect to find her waiting to clobber him with a fire iron, but the exchange was curiously stimulating. Her comment on him climbing up to her balcony to make love was reminiscent of a scene from Romeo and Juliet. She had a romantic heart and an appreciation for life's ironies. The revelation pleased him. He laughed in the darkness.

Trying to sleep was a waste of time, so Erik lit the lamp and made tea. Cautiously, he moved through the corridor with a pail to get water for bathing. He placed the bucket under a leaking pipe that supplied the city with culinary water. It would take a while for the pail to fill and he debated briefly whether to stay and protect his bucket from thieves or make better use of his time working on the design for the apartment building.

There seemed to be an agitated current flowing though the underground. Erik noticed it the moment he stepped outside his door. A distant voice echoed through the chiseled corridors. Erik didn't recognized the source, and the message came in half garbled syllables, though he could discern the nature of the meeting. Revolutionaries. Moving closer to the sound, through a familiar passageway, he listened.

The Government of the National Defense had sent troops to seize the artillery of the National Guard and been met women and children who mingled with them and charmed the soldiers into not firing on the fathers and husbands of the working class. When General Lecomte ordered the French army to fire on the National Guard, they refused.

Erik moved closer to the large cove where the revolutionaries met. Their torches lit the place up so brightly that Erik had to remain where he could not see who the men were, not that it mattered to him. What they did was not his concern outside of his natural curiosity about how the war was progressing. He learned that they planned to target the Hotel de ville and which buildings had already taken the worse hits. The police and both armies had killed many indiscriminately, but the revolutionaries were not going to be discouraged.

Erik retrieved his bucket of water, returned to his room and took a cool bath. It reminded him that he must include a modern plumbing system in his designs and gaslight for every room. He put on a fresh shirt and trousers. The laundry upstairs did a suitable job of maintaining his wardrobe. It was the one of the few advantages to his location.

He returned to his work. The design was coming along nicely and would be finished soon.

A heavy pounding on his door startled him momentarily. It wasn't a policy of his to open the door to just anyone. A number of possibilities crossed his mind. The army, police, thieves, revolutionaries. None of them were welcome.

"M'sir Phantom?" A youth's voice identified Garrick. Erik unbolted the door. The boy stood in the corridor partially illuminated by the lamplight inside. "The war! M'sir, It is civil war. The army is fighting the national guard and the people." He spit out the words and gasped for air. Erik stood aside and let the boy enter, closing the door quickly behind him.

"Yes, I am aware of it. The cannon fire has rattled my nerves all night." Erik responded warily.

"Fight with us, M'sir! We need everyone who can hold a gun and use a sword." Garrick implored him.

"Do you think that guns, swords and axes can overpower cannons? You waste your time and mine!" Erik stated unconditionally.

"But M'sir, the people have saved their money and bought a cannon. The National Guard has recruited every male of the working class that can hold a gun."

"Their money would have been better spent on food." Erik replied.

"The revolution is for all of France. The people will work for the good of everyone. If we unite, we can win!" Garrick announced proudly.

"Have you been reading Marxist propaganda?"

"I cannot read, M'sir." Garrick lowered his eyes.

"Then perhaps you should think! You can do that, can't you, boy?" Erik demanded impatiently. "There is no chance that the working class of Paris will defeat the Prussians without the help of the French army. The Prussian army pride themselves in being like a fighting machine and will deny themselves basic comforts for the sake of victory."

"The people of Paris are starving, M'sir. The bourgeoisie do not care if our bellies are empty and that babies cry themselves to sleep with no milk." Garrick looked away, but Erik saw the telltale reflection of the tears that puddled in the boy's eyes.

"Why do you come to me? I cannot be seen in public without someone wanting to take my life."

"I am not so different now. I must fight for my life. People are frightened of you and think that you have magical powers. They think that the devil supplies your magic."

"Do you think that the devil supplies my magical powers?" Erik asked cautiously.

"I do not know. If he does, he would be a powerful ally." Garrick said guiltily.

"So you are willing to sell your soul to the devil." Erik said, his voice booming theatrically. Garrick jumped visibly. Erik almost laughed, but for the sake of his performance, he stayed in character.

"No...I mean...I thought that...since you..." Garrick stammered.

"What?" Erik's asked silkily. "Since I what?" Garrick started edging his way toward the door. Erik blocked his path menacingly.

"Please..." The youth swayed. Erik reached out to steady him and steered him toward a chair.

"When was your last meal?" Erik demanded.

"Yesterday morning. I had a turnip." Garrick said woozily.

"Before that?"

"I had some bread. The day before."

"Where did you get it?" Erik asked more to keep the boy talking than anything else.

"I was so hungry, M'sir." Garrick protested weakly.

"You stole it?" Erik didn't care if the boy had openly carried off a loaf under each arm in broad daylight. He poured some tea in a cup and offered it to the boy. Tea would not sustain him, but it might keep him from passing out for the moment. Garrick took the tea and drank greedily. Erik gave him some cheese and shelled almonds. "Don't eat too fast. It will make you sick." In spite of Erik's warning, Garrick stuffed the food in his mouth as fast as he could and washed it down with the tea.

"This is how the Paris Commune will be defeated." Erik said. "They will starve to death. Famine is the most effective weapon of the bourgeoisie.

"But if you help us..." Garrick began.

"Oh yes, I was supposed to call on Satan to be your ally. What superstitions have you been taught? I hate to disappoint you, but I cannot call upon Satan to defend you." Erik declared, disgusted by the boy's simplicity.

"But they said that you made a pact with the devil and you can disappear in an instant. Bruno said that you did a disappearing act at the Opera Populaire, that only the devil could manage." Garrick protested.

"It is a skill, designed to impress the learned and confuse the ignorant. So I gather that Bruno, who ever the hell he is, is ignorant. You shouldn't use him as a tool of education."

"Would you teach me how to do it?" Garrick asked impressed with the possibilities.

"Absolutely not!" Erik declared emphatically. "If you should like to learn something useful, learn to read!"

"Would you teach me to read?" Garrick asked quietly.

"I have no time for such things. I am a busy man." Erik said quickly. Garrick's shoulders drooped and Erik was aware of his own selfishness. He thought of his own tutors, that his mother had hired. If they had all been as selfish, where would he be? When Erik had needed someone to venture into the world above, on his behalf, the boy had never refused. "However, I am in need of an assistant. I can give you some lessons in exchange for errands and the like. The first lesson is that you do not disturb me before noon on any day!"

"Then the second lesson should be for me to learn how to tell the time." Garrick responded honestly.

Meg sat at Aunt Clair's breakfast table with a blank expression. Buttery croissants and strawberry preserves, spicy sausages, soft boiled eggs, warm cheese rolls, fruit and fresh brewed coffee were laid out in an artful array. She thought of the children of the working class that were going hungry while she stared at a morning meal fit for royalty. No one else at the table seemed to feel the least bit apprehensive about having so much when there were those who had nothing. Meg could hardly eat. The food only left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Only hours after Erik left her, shortly after midnight, Meg lay awake, listening to the faraway thunder of the cannons. About that same time most of the house hold was awake and heard them. The revolt was the morning topic of conversation. Meg waited for someone to mention hearing something else in the night, but no one did.

Uncle Alec and Aunt Clair were firm in their support of the Government of the National Defense, the bourgeoisie administration, established after the capture of Napoleon III. Meg did not discuss her own views and she noticed that Madame Giry did not elaborate on her opinion either. The other boarders, also either kept their opinions to themselves or openly supported the position of the middle class.

By noon that day, a decree had been issued that all non-military individuals were to remain indoors. Also, the members of the House of Clureoux had been put on food and water rations until further notice.

Meg instantly regretted not eating her fill at breakfast when she saw the portions of bread and cheese that were her allowed sustenance for the day. There was to be no unnecessary bathing or laundry done. The atmosphere through out the house was one of fear and anxiety.

Uncle Alec, Aunt Clair, Madame Giry and several of the older guests gathered in the main parlor to discuss the turn of events in reverent tones. Meg and Michelle kept each other company either in the kitchen with Jacques or in Meg's room.

Michelle's abdomen was expanding to the point that it was becoming impossible to ignore. Meg privately hoped that the baby would not make an appearance any time soon. They didn't discuss "Michelle's condition," as Madame Giry called the pregnancy.

Gunfire and the blasts from the cannons rattled the widows and shook the building. Meg's nerves were strung so tight that even the slightest sound of someone moving about the house could make her jump. The feeling of helplessness and hopelessness was the hardest to deal with. Not knowing how long the war was to go on and the fear of death gripped everyone.

Three days passed with no change. Everyone continued to speak in hushed tones. The shades remained drawn. Cannon fire sent shock after shock through the city. Aunt Clair had begun reading aloud in the main parlor late each morning before the noon day meal. Breakfast consisted of a boiled egg or a small portion of sausage and a piece of bread and coffee. Luncheon was minor portions of cold ham, cheese and dried fruit. Tea was served late in the afternoon with toast with honey and pickled herring. No one complained for it was much more than many enjoyed throughout the city.

Meg hadn't told anyone about Erik's late-night visit, not even Michelle. But the cellar door that led from the kitchen took on a new significance. She dared not try to seek Erik through the tunnel mazes, but knowing that he had a direct access into her home, both thrilled and dismayed her. That he could seek her out if he chose, thrilled her. That he didn't, dismayed her. But even in her disappointment, she knew the hopelessness of her affection.

She began spending more and more time in the kitchen with Jacques and his wife, Hannah, the housemaid, doing odd jobs and errands to pass the time. They were a pleasant couple and Meg enjoyed their playful banter. She found herself wondering what kind of couple she and Erik would be, _if_ they were to be a couple. She listened to them now, teasing each other for misplacing items.

"I know that I had some more dried figs and raisins here, yesterday. A whole loaf of bread is missing and if I'm not mistaken, a pound of smoked sausage and a brick of cheese are gone too." Jacques said distracted.

"I did not move them." Hannah replied defiantly.

"I was not thinking that they were moved but perhaps eaten." He said and was rewarded with a withering stare from his wife. "But how I love a woman with an appetite." He hastily countered, with a grin and wink.

"Do not speak another word, if you expect the comforts of married life tonight." She threatened him.

"I welcome the life of a bachelor over the one of a henpecked husband, my buxom bride." He replied without animosity.

"It is good that you feel that way, because I shall enjoy that bed all to myself, without the sound of your snores rattling the windows!" Came the mocking reply.

Meg did not take them seriously, for if Hannah carried any extra weight, her husband could not complain for it was all in the right places. She had heard their bickering before only to find them in the garden minutes later, stealing kisses. The missing pantry items, however, got her attention. The pantry was a small, eight by ten feet, windowless room lined with deep shelves, stacked six high, on three sides. It was constructed of thick brick and the door was always locked. Jacques and Aunt Clair were the only ones to have a key. It was also well stocked, though Meg didn't doubt that Jacques knew exactly what was in it at any given time. With everyone on wartime rations, stealing food was a serious accusation.

Meg instantly thought of Erik and the tool he'd used to pick the lock on the door leading to the underground passage.

"Maybe it was carried of by rats." Meg offered an explanation.

"In my pantry? I should say not!" Jacques denied vehemently. "The rats have left Paris. They do not like the sound of cannons balls rumbling through the earth, and they have better sense than to stay in a war zone. I think we have a thief in the house, though I should not like to mention it to anyone just yet. I may wait up tonight and see if anyone tries to break in. I have been denied my own bed tonight as it is. I might as well be useful here." He looked at Hannah for a rebuttal. None came, as she deliberately turned her back on her husband and walked out of the kitchen carrying a broom and a dustpan.

Meg stopped herself from begging Hannah to reconsider. If Erik were in need of a bit of nourishment, she would steal it for him herself. The last thing she wanted was for him to be caught. Even worse yet, if Jacques were to confront Erik, Jacques may get hurt.

An idea came to her and she went to her room to locate the ink and writing paper that she and Michelle had used to write to Reggie. After looking on the bureau and around her uncluttered room for several minutes, she concluded that it had been borrowed. She knocked on Michelle's bedroom door and entered upon the young woman's invitation. She was correct to suspect Michelle had borrowed it. She sat at a petite desk writing as Meg walked in. She looked just a little guilty, Meg thought.

"I was looking for the writing paper and I see that you have it. That is alright, but I should need it when you are finished." Meg said, not wanting to elaborate on the reason for needing the paper.

"I was a...uh..um...writing to Reggie. His letter came today and I thought that since we already decided that I would write to him that I...uh... would do it." Michelle confessed. "You were busy." She added hastily.

"That is good. I'm glad you are doing it." Meg started to leave.

"Don't you want to read his letter?" Michelle asked, a little surprised.

"No, unless you think that I should. I would want to know it he was wounded or anything, but if all's well, I think that you should reply as you see fit." Meg answered. She really didn't want to become further involved with Reggie. She already had enough to think about.

"He is well, though profoundly embarrassed by the other evening. He should like to make it up to you when it is safe to go out again. What shall I tell him?"

"I don't know," Meg admitted. "That is why you are doing this. I can't break his heart by telling him that I love another until after the war."

"You're being a coward, don't you think?" Michelle spoke boldly.

"Of course, I am. We've already established that! I don't want _you _to tell him that I don't love him, either. That would be just as cruel. I do care about him in a _sisterly_ way. Try to come across as sisterlike so that he won't get any more romantic notions." Meg suggested.

"I shall do my best." Michelle said.

It wasn't until after everyone had retired for the evening that Meg went back down to the kitchen. Jacques was in the kitchen still obsessed over the stolen food and when he went into the pantry to investigate another possible disappearance, Meg slid the note, she'd been hiding in the folds of her skirt, under the cellar door. It was a gamble that Erik would even find it or that it was he, who had pilfered the food. The note wasn't addressed to anyone in particular, on the off chance that it wasn't Erik, who had raided the pantry. It was merely a warning that a trap was set. It was vague and without further explanation, but it would have to do. She was curious about whether or not Jacques would actually create some kind of trap or just sleep in the kitchen waiting for someone to set off an alarm.

"How do you expect to catch the thief?" Meg asked him when he reappeared.

"Well, I have checked the outside door to the garden and the cellar door. Both are barred from the inside. The only way, for someone to get in, is through the dinning room. I believe that the culprit is one of our guests. But I can hardly point the finger at anyone specifically." Jacques said, his hands spread.

"Oh." Meg said for lack of anything else.

"For now, I guess that I'll sleep next to the pantry door. If anyone tries to get in, they will have to move me out of the way. But I don't expect to catch anyone, merely let them know that I'm not fooled."

"Oh." Meg said again, aware of her redundancy and after bidding Jacques goodnight, she went to her room, silently praying that Erik would be the only one to find her note.

The gunfire between the army and the revolutionaries hadn't let up much and very little was known outside of what was printed in the daily newspaper that miraculously appeared every morning. Uncle Alec was the first to read it each day and shared the news with the others who anxiously awaited further information. Less than five days had passed since the army had been sent to capture the firearms of the revolutionaries. The mortality count continued to rise as the names of the deceased were published. Everyone listened for familiar names as they were read each morning.

Meg awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of an explosion. It boomed as a great thunder shaking the house to its foundation. She jumped out of bed and met Michelle in the hall. Together, they headed for Madame Giry's room. She met them at the door.

"Get dressed quickly." She ordered and the younger women obeyed. When Meg emerged again from her room, she wore trousers, high black boots and a white shirt. She joined the other members of the household in the main parlor. Michelle was right behind her. She stayed close to Meg. Uncle Alec was admonishing everyone to not panic, while Aunt Claire sat in her favorite chair, wearing a ivory dressing robe of satin and lace, and weeping profusely. Madam Giry stood next to her patting her shoulder and trying to comfort her.

Shouting, echoing gunfire, and horses could be heard out in the street. A loud rapping on the door caused everyone to jump. Uncle Alec opened the door to two soldiers who immediately pushed past him and shouted at everyone to remain where they were. One soldier pointed a bayonet at them, explaining that no one would be hurt, unless they were harboring revolutionaries. The other one rushed through the rest of the house, first upstairs, then on the main floor, into the kitchen, looking for fugitives. Meg thought she heard the door to the cellar open, hoping that she had imagined it. She may have also imagined the curious look that Jacques gave her, when her face paled.


	10. Chapter 10

It wasn't more than five minutes before the soldier returned from the cellar, but for Meg it seemed like an hour. He surveyed the group distrustfully as he motioned for the other soldier for the leave. If the soldier found the note, it could easily be misinterpreted as a warning to an insurgent. The truth was no less incriminating. Erik was still a wanted to man, but the Paris police had bigger problems at the present moment.

Another blast of gunfire drew the soldiers' attention outside. Meg willed her heart to resume its normal rhythm after they left. So far, the House of Clureoux had been lucky. No one had been maimed or arrested. The soldier hadn't found the note. She doubted that he'd ignore it if he had. Meg thought of Erik, and wondered if he'd found the note. Several times she'd thought of going down through the tunnels to try and find him. But even if she did eventually locate him, he didn't necessarily want to be found. She would be wasting her time looking for him.

It was not yet dawn, however, it would be impossible for anyone to try and sleep. Michelle followed Meg into the kitchen when Aunt Clair asked Meg to help Jacques serve everyone brandy. Jacques poured the amber liquid into glasses and Meg put them on a tray. The glasses rattled clinking against each other. Michelle took the tray from her shaking hands and offered to carry the tray if Meg would hand the drinks to the guest. After everyone had been served and sat in the parlor talking about the evenings drama, Meg silently went into the kitchen. She carefully opened the cellar door, holding a candle above her to cast more light into the blackness. She looked down on the top step, where the note had been left. It was gone.

"Are you looking for this, Mademoiselle?" Jacques said from behind her. She almost dropped the candle and just managed to stifle the scream that threatened to come forth from the depths of her lungs. She turned around pulling the cellar door closed behind her. Jacques held the paper she'd written the note on. Meg met his eyes with her own. They were not angry, as she'd expected. "Maybe you had better tell me what you've been up too." He said, not unkindly. She stared at him unsure of what to say. "If you do not want me to tell your Aunt that you have been stealing food and supplying it to the revolutionaries, tell me what it is that you have done." Meg stared at him, tears puddled in her eyes out of fear of what it would do to her mother if the truth were known. It would jeopardize their position at the boarding house. They may even be asked to leave. To deny stealing the food now would be useless. It would only raise more unpleasant questions. Meg remained silent, her eyes brimming with the unshed tears. "Mademoiselle, if you are smuggling food to the insurgents, I have to know." He voice softened.

"I cannot tell you, Monsieur, but please do not tell Aunt Clair. She and mother would be so upset. I cannot bear to see them suffer because of my transgressions." Her voice wobbled though she tried to stop it.

"Do not cry, child. I will not tell them. But please tell me that there's no one hiding in the cellar." He said seriously.

"There is no one in the cellar. But he–." Meg broke off. She'd said too much.

"He?" Jacques said inquisitively. Meg blushed in spite of herself and tuned away from his searching look. "Is this man someone you care for? Is he a revolutionary?" Something in Jacques voice betrayed that being a revolutionary wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe he privately supported the Paris Commune but had better sense than to let his views be known. Meg took a chance and nodded. "Do not worry, Meg. Maybe we can help each other." Jacques said. Meg listened as he told her about the plight of the working class. Meg was already vaguely aware of their political struggles. And although there was plenty that she didn't understand, because her life had been the sheltered existence her mother arranged for her, there seemed a great unbalance in the social structure of Paris. He told her that he too had been supplying the revolutionaries with meager amounts of food. If she was in support of the Paris Commune, he would keep her secret and she could help the cause of the starving proletariat. Meg didn't hesitate to agree.

"I will help you, but how will I be able to help?" She whispered.

"After the soldiers leave the area, you will take some lentils to an address that I will give you later. Javotté is the woman who lives there and she will cook it up for the soldiers and see that they get it. It will be better if I have do not have to make all the deliveries. I would not be easy to get a carriage to deliver it right now. Anyone seen making a grocery delivery in that neighborhood would be in danger. Everyone is hungry, but the food is for the soldiers. Your aunt will not notice as much if you are gone for two hours at a time, but hurry in case anyone should wonder where you are."

"Does it take two hours to make the trip?" Meg asked puzzled. Somehow she'd expected that it would be a shorter distance.

"Only an hour. But that is if you hurry and do not have take a detour because of trouble."

"You will have to tell me how to get there, because I still don't know Paris very well."

"That is why you will have to go before nightfall for the first time. I believe that if you leave very early in the morning, so you can be back before anyone else if up. It is better to go in the morning. After that you should leave in the dark and be back before dawn. I will show you where the food is hidden." He reached past her and turned the handle to the cellar door. The door opened and he pushed past her to go down the stairs. Meg followed.

Several burlap bags were stored in a corner behind an old wardrobe. Meg didn't count them but guessed there to be around ten twenty-five pound bags of lentils and as many of flour.

"There isn't much left anymore, but I must take it to three different places to be prepared. It would be a big help if you would do this."

"Where did it all come from?" Meg asked surprised.

"We have been planning this revolt for some time. Many of us saved our money to buy food for the soldiers, because we knew that the bourgeoisie would cut off the supply of food. I paid for the lentils myself, though they were delivered with your Aunt Claire's order. I did this a six months ago. Now it will keep the National Guard alive to fight. It was safer here. The soldiers would not raid a bourgeoisie house as quickly as a proletariat one." Jacques said, pleased with himself. Meg didn't mention that the store looked too small to keep an army alive, but he'd said that there were others doing the same thing. Maybe it would be enough to do something to help the cause.

"Let's get back to the parlor before someone misses us." Meg said quickly. It would not be good if someone missed them and went searching. Everyone else was still in the parlor finishing their brandy when Meg returned to the group. Michelle was the only one who seemed to notice that Meg had something on her mind besides the obvious drama of the soldier holding them at gunpoint while the house was searched. She questioned Meg about it. As much as she wanted to bring the younger girl into her confidences, she didn't dare risk it. The less Michelle knew, the better. It would only worry her unnecessarily, so Meg denied anything being amiss. Sometime before the crack of dawn everyone went back to bed, calmed by the brandy.

She had promised Jacques that she would deliver the lentils to Javotté, and she'd do it as much to support the men fighting for a better way of life as she would to keep her secret. Jacques wouldn't tell her Aunt about the stolen food, because he believed that she was aiding the cause of the proletariat. He'd put the lentils in a cloth bag, tied the top with twine, then placed the full bag into a canvas satchel. Meg crept out of the house as soon as it was light enough to see her way through the street. The soldiers were no longer haunting the street. They were occupied elsewhere for the moment. The directions that Jacques gave her were easy to follow and it didn't take too long to find the address. She knocked on the door. A small woman with graying hair straggling from beneath her dingy mop cap opened the door. Her mouth popped open and her gray eyes fairly bulged in surprise to see Meg.

"Javotté?" Meg said uncertainly.

"Y...yes. How can I help you, Mademoiselle?" She asked almost recovered from the shock.

"This is for you...from Jacques." Meg said, hoping that would be all the explanation needed.

"Is he sick?" Javotté asked with new concern.

"No, but it is difficult at times for him to get away. He asked me to come." The woman gazed at her suspiciously. "My name is Meg Giry. I wanted to help. But I have to hurry back before I am missed." She explained. Smiling apologetically, she handed the satchel to Javotté, who removed the bag of lentils and gave the satchel back to Meg.

It was still early dawn when Meg returned to the boarding house. Everyone was still asleep. She crept up the stairs in her stocking feet and silently went to her mother's door to listen for the sound of gentle snoring. Satisfied that her mother was still asleep, she crawled under the covers of her own soft bed. In a matter seconds, she was asleep.

Meg made a similar journey each morning before sunup for four days. The fighting had subsided drastically. The earth shaking blasts from the cannons no longer rattled the house while Meg slept. Instead, there was a mournful aura about the city. The newspaper reported twenty thousand dead in just only a week of fighting. Some revolutionaries were still holding out in isolated pockets throughout the city, while most had been arrested and were being detained in prison camps. The city was emerging from what was beginning to be called the bloodiest week in French history.

Erik surveyed the devastation in dismay. One of Paris' most beautiful and prestigious hotels was in complete ruin. Many once majestic, historical landmarks lay in crumbled masses. It was nothing less than insanity that inspired such destruction, Erik thought. After the shelling had stopped, he'd decided to see the damage for himself. The street was deserted now except for a lone figure emerging from a shabby townhouse, barely visible in the fading darkness. It was a curious figure, dressed in trousers like a man, but the manner of walking was more like a woman. Something was familiar in the way she carried herself, like a dancer. It was Margaret Giry. Though her blond hair was hidden under a dull brown cap, it could be no one else. He'd watched her hundreds of times in practice or in performance. Her movement was almost as familiar as Christine's. He thought of disappearing into the shadows as was his custom whenever someone approached, but this time was different. He wanted her to see him. As much as anything, he told himself, he wanted to know what she was doing out in the street in the wee hours in the morning.

"Mademoiselle." He greeted her as she approached within a few yards.

"Monsieur!" She responded immediately and somewhat surprised. It took her a few moments to recognize the man who addressed her. "Erik! What...are you...doing here?" She stammered. He wore the flesh colored mask and a wide brimmed hat, but gone were his formal cloak and coat. He wore a white shirt, dark trousers and hessian boots. His attire was much the same as her own.

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but I should ask you the same thing. Young ladies who are caught sneaking home early in the morning are gossiped about terribly. Perhaps you do not care to share where you've been." His voice held a hint of accusation. It angered Meg that he would be so quick to assume the worst. It would seem that he'd done more than enough of that already.

"How can you be so quick to judge?" Meg said, not meeting his eyes, but focusing her attention on the top button of his vest. "It is your fault that I am here. So you can just keep your self-righteous position to yourself. I have taken the blame for what you did, so don't get all high and mighty–!" She would have continued, but he lifted her chin with a gloved index finger so that her eyes met his.

"What do you mean? I have done nothing to merit such accusation." His eyes were intense and speculative.

"There was food was missing from the pantry. Who else could have taken it? The door was locked and I saw how you picked the lock in the cellar. You had almost a direct access to the house from the underground passage. Who else would it have been?" Meg justified her assumption.

"I did not take anything from the pantry. I have many resources, but I do not steal from my friends." Erik said indignantly. "You have a thief in the house, because I did not take anything. In fact, I am offended that you think that I would." Meg couldn't be sure, but his voice may have held a trace of amusement. "But what does any of that have to do with you sneaking home in the early hours?"

"Jacques, our chef, noticed the missing food and I thought that you may have helped yourself." Meg said weakly. " I know now that it wasn't you, but at the time, I was trying to protect you. I would have stolen the food myself if you had needed it. I left a note for you under the cellar door, just in case you came back for more, but Jacques found the note and I couldn't explain it. I let him believe that I was smuggling food to someone else, and he thought that I was supporting the proletariat cause and should help him supply food for the soldiers. I have been taking lentils and flour to a place where it can be given to the National Guard."

"Where have you been taking it?"

"Just about a half hour walk from the house. I haven't been in too much danger."

"That's not entirely the point, but you must stop making the deliveries. I am sure that your mother always planned to find a suitable husband for you. Surely you do not want to spoil your chances by being caught sneaking home in the early morning." Erik admonished.

"What are you talking about?" Meg scoffed.

"Such carelessness. Even now, you are dressed in trousers, which is considered a wicked abomination! No decent man would have you if it were known that you habitually don men's apparel and give aid and comfort to the enemy."

"I don't know..."

"You really don't know." Erik said with some amazement. "Your mother protected you with a fierceness that made it obvious to anyone that you were different, not like the other girls, who were so free with their favors. She never left you or Christine alone for more than just a few seconds. It was widely known at the Paris Opera that you were off limits, because she wanted the two of you to have good marriages. Madame Giry would have killed with her bare hands to protect you."

"I know that she protected me. But she never said anything about...about..." Meg stammered.

"Is it possible that you could get to your age without knowing that you were being primed for a suitable marriage?" Erik looked at her with uncertainty

"That is ridiculous. People in the theater married all the time. Many had children. Mother was married." Meg argued.

"Everything is about social class. Surely you've noticed that theaters have doubled as brothels and actresses as harlots. You and Christine are the exceptions, because your mother saw to it. Go home quickly before you are seen. It wouldn't do for you to be seen talking to a man on the street. You should remember that." Erik said in a voice that implied he was cutting their conversation short.

"But I don't care what people think."

"You should. Don't do any more to further the cause of the working class. Their efforts are a waste of time and money and I don't want you to put yourself at risk. There's no need for it."

"Why do you care?" Meg brushed away a strand of hair from her eyes.

"I don't." He blinked. "Especially when you ignore sound advice. Goodbye, Mademoiselle." Erik said turning from her.

"When can I see you again?" Meg said to his back. He stopped and turned to face her.

"Have you heard nothing that I said?" He said spreading his arms expressively. Meg gathered her courage to speak. She may never again have the opportunity to say how she felt.

"Have you heard anything that_ I_ have said? We are friends. You said as much yourself. As friends, it would be nice to see each other once in a while." She contended.

"I was talking about Madame Giry. She and I are friends, albeit a strained relationship. A friendship, between you and I, would be a sham. In time, either we would become lovers or hate each other or both. I'm betting on both."

"Then you admit that you feel something for me." Meg said, trying not to show the joy that she felt, in spite of his cynicism.

"I would have to be dead otherwise. But where can it go? We cannot marry. There is not a clergyman in the country that would perform the service. If I were to make you my mistress, it would be less than you deserve." Erik said as though his logical explanation was final.

"But I would accept." Meg said simply.

"What! I have not made the proposition!" Erik was taken aback. "This is hardly the time and place to discuss such things!" Looking both ways, he pulled her away from the street into a narrow back alley, as though it was somehow better than the deserted street. His body shielded hers, casting her in shadow. The stars were beginning fade in the sky and a grayish light announced daybreak.

"When did you become a subscriber of propriety?" Meg teased, knowing that she had caught him off guard.

"When did you become an aspiring tart?" He shot back. She raised her hand to strike him. "Don't try it! I've already warned you once!" For a split second, Meg thought that she had pushed him too far. His eyes flashed darkly, frightening her, though she would not admit it. Her gaze held his, unwavering.

When he lowered his lips to meet hers, it was as a storm tossed current finding its cycle in a whirling vortex. Instinctively, she allowed him the pleasure of her mouth. His lips moved greedily over hers. Pulling her closer, he kissed her temple, her eyelids. He let her cap fall to the ground as he stroked her hair. She felt the rhythmic meter of his heart or perhaps it was her own that pulsed rapidly.

Erik was breathing heavily and his voice was oddly harsh when he spoke. "Why do you insist on pushing the limits? Do they tutor girls in school on how to drive men beyond the edge of reason?"

"No. I think it's part of a bigger plot for men to blame women for their own animal instinct." Meg answered and was instantly sorry. She shouldn't have baited him, as she did, but he'd implied too many times that she was careless with her favors.

"So you did not enjoy it, as I did." Indignant with her cool reply, he kissed her again. This time he brushed her lips softly, his breath mingling with hers, warming her. Slowly, his hand caressed the small of her back, pressing her closer to him. His tongue moistened her lips, sliding into her mouth to savor the delights within. At some point, Meg began kissing him back, but Erik maintained control over the kiss, pulling back, when she became too eager, only to return, deepening the kiss until she fairly gasped with pleasure.

It was Erik that ended the kiss, by releasing her abruptly. Meg stared at him in confusion. His eyes regarded her, bright with victory and something else that Meg lacked the experience to interpret. She trembled from the shock of the desire he had stirred in her, but he had simply used her to prove his point.

Shame and anger washed through her in a violent tide. Tears pricked her eyes and she fought the overflow that threatened to spill down her cheek. She'd been foolish to think that he was different than other men who so casually used women for their own purposes. She didn't blame anyone but herself. She had deliberately taunted him, wanting him to succumb to her feminine appeal. But she hadn't realized that his vulnerability was entirely in her imagination.

"You used me!" Meg accused, angrily.

"Did you think I wouldn't? It is only your good luck..._or misfortune _that seedy back alleys are my style! Go home before you are ruined for another man!" Erik ordered caustically. Meg didn't need another warning. She almost ran the entire distance home.

Erik bent to retrieve her cap, then watched her go. It was for the best, after all. If he had to walk off some sexual frustration, it wouldn't be the first time or even the last. He often ran for the purpose of exercise in the early hours and this morning he'd already covered several miles. The sun was just about to make an appearance and he didn't have any choice but to hurry. His lungs needed the fresh air, if the air in Paris could be called fresh. The smell of the sewers was ever present and he'd never quite gotten used to it. He started off in a brisk walk but after a short distance, he began to run.

It proved more difficult to erase the memory of his little tryst with Meg than he anticipated. She was still first and foremost in his thoughts when he returned to his room and tried to get some sleep. He'd acquired one of the bad habits of theater people while living in the Paris Opera, of sleeping during the morning and living his life in the late afternoon and evening. There was still a certain irony in encountering a woman in his life with the same disrupted schedule. He'd just about convinced himself that he could give up the dream of having someone love him. It wouldn't be wise to not get his hopes up again. The memory of Christine's rejection remained a gaping wound in his heart. Though for the life of him, he could not hate her. Nor could he simply transfer the emotion to another. What he felt for Meg was surely not the same. Was it? It would have been easy enough to enjoy an affair with her, but she deserved more. If anything he felt more protective of Meg. He'd thought of her as Christine's sister and off limits to himself. Madame Giry had made it known that she expected Meg to make a suitable marriage. Meg may missed the message her mother sent to everyone else, but he did not. Many of the actor and actresses at the opera had felt similarly protective and she had been the little darling of the opera since she was a little girl.

He should be ashamed of what he did to her, awakening her passion, when he should have sent her home with an appropriate scolding for her early morning adventure. He'd tried that though and it had just brought out a boldness in her that quite honestly surprised him. The way she had responded to him thrilled him even in retrospect. He would not have thought that she would act as she did. In fact, he expected her to be repulsed. His demonstration was meant to scare her. He thought back on the first time she'd kissed him in the marquess's garden. He believed that she did so in pity. Christine had kissed him out of pity and until this morning, it had been all he'd known. There had been no pity when Meg held on to him for support when her knees went weak.

In spite of his restless condition, he managed a few hours of sleep before Garrick arrived just after noon. They breakfasted on dried fruit, sausage and tea. Erik glanced through the morning paper, then handed it to Garrik.

"Read this," he said pointing to a passage. Garrick began to sound out the first words, haltingly. When he stumbled over the words Erik prompted him with the correct phonetic pronunciation. He chanted rules governing silent letters and letter combinations and had Garrick repeat them. The boy was making remarkable progress. In just over a week, he'd mastered the primary alphabet and begun to apply his newly acquired knowledge to existing print. After Garrick stumbled through several passages, Erik gave him pen and paper to write the daily lesson, dictating the simple sentences he was to write. He also outlined a mathematics lesson for him. The boy had a natural knack for numbers and learned quickly the strategies for solving math problems. Erik surprised himself by the enjoyment he derived from teaching the boy. He was able to witness a life altering transformation in the young man. Education would eventually be the determinant in what kind of life he would have. Erik liked tipping the scale in the boy's favor.

Garrick had picked up the post addressed to Erik Reeves Ian Kristof. The name was an acronym in reverse for Erik's only title and a tribute to his deprivation of valid options. The return address of a realtor's firm caught his attention. He'd been expecting a reply for weeks. It was an answer to his request for a list of country estates for sale.

There were several listed, as he'd expected, that interested him. One in particular caught his notice. The Chateau de Bagen, located in the Midi-Pyrenees region, was grossly under priced which indicated that it was in a sorry state. He was vaguely aware of the old structure, built roughly a hundred and fifty years earlier. Even in some disrepair the framework would still be of exceptional quality. He'd never been through the house, but his mother had taken him through Sauveterre de comminges when he had been about nine to visit her parents. He didn't remember much about his grandparents or their home but the countryside was breathtaking. He remembered the handsome old Chateau de Bagen being set away from the main road and horses grazing in lush meadows. His mother had called the house by name and he'd never forgotten it. He knew that the ageing composer, who had lived there had died just five or six years ago. William Vincent Wallace had been a competent musician but a poor business man, selling his finest work, _Lurline_, a lovely opera, for only a pound. His less successful opera, _The Amber Witch _was musically adequate, but the storyline was based on a true events surrounding the chilling witch trial of Mary Schwiedler. People did not attend the opera to be educated on social injustices, so even a relatively good opera did not have the box office success it deserved. If Erik were to find fault with the man's compositions it would have been in the instrumental aspects of his style because the vocal lines and harmonies were exceptional.

Erik felt a pang of regret for the man. Wallace must have died penniless for his house was being sold for barely more than taxes. Erik would buy the old composer's home. It was only fitting that such a grand old house should fall into the hands of someone who would appreciate it.

Erik drafted a letter to the real estate agent and gave it to Garrick to post. The boy left, saying that he would return shortly.

Erik went to work on a new design. It was a project that he'd been anticipating for a long time. Paris was known for its unique style of buildings that occupied an entire block with a center courtyard. They had a certain sterile quality, but they also had a necessary practicality. He wanted to devise a plan that would give the building a unique personality without sacrificing structural integrity. He laid out a basic floor plan for an apartment with some affordable luxuries such as wider doorways, larger windows, gas heating and lighting and spacious parlors. Plumbing for hot and cold running water and new water-flush toilets were included in the layout.

It was a gamble to include such modern conveniences. Few contractors knew how to install the new toilets correctly with the necessary venting and such to get them to work properly.

Erik was so involved with his work, he didn't notice the time passing. A commotion beyond his door startled him. It sounded like a dog barking and someone running. Now the ruckus was right outside his door. He hesitated only briefly before reaching for his knife and opening the door. He found Garrick down on the ground fighting off a huge dog that had sunk its teeth into his shoulder. Erik didn't waste another second in sliding the knife between the two of them and cutting the dog's throat. The dog wore a tag identifying it as a police dog, trained to kill. Garrick lay still, covered with blood oozing from more wounds than Erik had time to count and he wondered, in chilling dismay, if he'd been too late.


	11. Chapter 11

Erik carried the boy into the room and stretched him out on the floor. Garrick cried out softly and Erik breathed with relief. He wasn't dead yet and Erik wasn't about to let him go without a fight. He filled the tea pot with water from the pitcher and lit the candle beneath it to begin heating the water. It wouldn't be enough in the long run but it was all he had at the moment. Spirts of any kind would be good to flush out the wound, but wine wasn't the best choice. Since Erik rarely drank hard liquor, he didn't have any to use an antiseptic.

Erik had read recently about Joseph Lister's antiseptic procedures that was supposed to kill microscopic bacteria responsible for a myriad of infectious diseases, including lockjaw, which was possibly the greatest risk from dog bite. Rabies was a close second but the police dog was probably not infected. It would have been put down at the first indication of risk. He bathed Garrick's wounds and gave him a small dose of opium tincture. At least it would relieve some of the pain.

The boy had been eating better since Erik had employed him, but he was still malnourished and not in the best of health to withstand any kind of infection. Garrick was in shock and babbled incoherently. Erik ripped one of his clean white shirts into strips and bandaged Garrick's forearm where the dog's teeth had torn into the boy's flesh leaving a gaping trough eight inches long down his arm, barely missing a crucial artery. His knees were skinned badly and both hands were punctured from the sharp canines. There was a deep cut on his chin where the dog had gone for the throat and missed. The dog probably couldn't see very well in the darkness and therefore only maimed the young man instead of killing him. The next problem would be the waiting. He'd heard that lockjaw could take as many as four or more days to set in and many died from it. Erik didn't know what percentage of those, who were infected, survived.

Other problems faced him as well. If the dog had found entrance to his underground refuge, it was at matter of time before the police found it as well. The echo of gunfire in the close vicinity of his room jarred his nerves and notified him that his prediction was imminent. Quickly he extinguished the flames in both lamps and waited. It would not do for someone to see the light seeping from under the door. Another retort of gunfire and then a thumping, crashing roar. Erik knew that sound all too well. It was a cave-in and not just a small one like before. His blood ran cold with panic though he willed himself not to lose control. He heard the rock and dirt piling up outside the door. They were trapped!

There was no danger that anyone would see the light beneath the door now. He lit one lamp and prepared the feather tick for Garrick. He put the boy down carefully on the tick and covered him up with the duvet. He couldn't help but think of Christine at that moment. He'd brought the satin duvet for her, but she would never know it.

He'd not been entirely unprepared for the disaster. In fact, he'd been expecting it to happen for sometime. The resounding shock wave of gunfire in the narrow corridors had just accelerated the forthcoming event. The police had, without a doubt, used dogs to ferret out the secret entrances of the Paris underground where revolutionaries plotted and planned their strategies. And they had foolishly fired their guns without a thought of what they were doing.

Erik wasn't surprised. He was just angry at the pointless stupidity of it all. A innocent boy lay on his floor bearing a punishment that was not his. He had done nothing wrong. Yes, Erik thought, he would focus on the anger. Anger and hate would see him through this, while self-pity and despair would kill him and Garrick too, for the boy would not survive without his help. The water in the tea pot came to a boil. Quickly, Erik removed it from the heat. It would not do to waste a single drop due to evaporation. It was the only water for the two of them until they were free, since Erik had used the rest of the water for bathing the boy's wounds.

The last minor cave-in that caught Patsy unawares had inspired him to borrow a short handled shovel from an unattended cart near the carriage house not too far from the laundry. It was leaning in the corner closest to the door. Without further hesitation, he opened the door, ready to stand back quickly when the dirt and rocks came pouring inside.

Ordinarily, he would have assumed that the direction toward the stairs would be the shortest and the safest, but with attack dogs possibly waiting outside it wasn't necessarily the best solution. There was also the possibility that there were others, police officers in particular, that might be buried beneath the rubble. It was hard to predict if someone else might be digging to recover the body of a fallen comrade. Also the northern direction, which would take him closer to the stairway would take him further from where he needed to go. The only other room in the underground which offered comparable safety and comfort was the little room behind the cellar at the House of Clureoux. It was just of half as big as the one under the laundry but it would have to suffice for the time being.

Garrick needed medical attention and there was only so much that Erik could do. There was also the problem of how to get the help Garrick needed after they were free. Leaving him at the hospital was the same as sending him to the prison camps outside the city, for that was where he would end up eventually. It would simply be assumed that the tattered youth would be in league with the revolutionaries.

Erik reached for the shovel and began moving the dirt and rocks further into the room. It was the only place for it to go. He worked quickly and only stopped to attend to Garrick, giving him sips of water to keep him from becoming dehydrated. He coaxed him into eating what was left of the sausage and dried fruit. There was not way to know how long it would take for them to get free and the boy would need every ounce of strength that the nourishment would provide. Erik didn't know how long he'd dug through the rubble when he simply lacked the strength to continue, he sat down for just a few moments before going back to digging. He drank wine to satisfy his thirst, saving the water for Garrick. Acting on an impression, he gave some of the wine to Garrick. Even wine would help to keep him from getting dehydrated and it would relax him which, in turn, would reduce some of the muscle spasms if lockjaw set in. Already the youth shivered beneath the duvet and yet burned with fever.

Erik didn't dare take the time to rest. He'd already cleared enough to see that the ceiling and the wall of the corridor had collapsed. He extinguished the lamps to save on the oil while just burning a single candle. With each shovel full, the room filled rapidly with displaced soil and rock. Erik shifted everything, including Garrick to the corner facing the door so he could fill the far end with dirt. Erik estimated that he'd dug out enough dirt to just about clear ten feet straight up and out when the dirt stopped pouring in on top of him. He'd been able to create a slope going up to where he could crawl up and almost stand on the dirt that had collapsed. Once on top of the fallen soil, he could crawl forward over the soft surface of the dirt. The cave-in took out about sixty feet of the narrow corridor, filling it up so the only way to get through was to go up and over the filled area of the tunnel. From there, he dug downward to where the tunnel continued south. The dirt was soft and each time he tried to dig downward, loose soil filled the hole again. Hours passed as Erik continued to dig, but eventually the dirt began to slide further and further down until it finally stopped indicating that there was a solid base not too far away. Erik crept forward with a candle into the darkness. The tunnel seemed more of less intact from there.

Erik wrapped Garrick in the duvet and used it pull the boy up and out of the room that had served as Erik's home for the past few months. It was past time to move into a new neighborhood. Erik had never noticed the distance to the more elite area of the city until he had to carry another person through it. What was probably only two miles had become the longest two miles in Paris. He carried the boy over his shoulder so he could hold the lamp to see his way through the tunnels. The brick and mortar construction of underground passages reflected the better structures of the city above them as they moved closer to the House of Clureoux.

Erik easily picked the lock on the door to the little room that had just become his new address. It was smaller than what he thought he needed, but under the circumstances it would have to do. He carefully put Garrick on the stone floor. The duvet was filthy but it would have to suffice for now. The main thing for now was that they weren't trapped under tons of dirt and rock.

KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

Meg was preparing letters of notice that the Giry School of Ballet would be reopening and taking new students immediately, when her mother handed her a letter addressed to Meg Giry from Monsieur R. Dublan. Madame Giry beamed her approval.

"I am so glad that he is able to write. I have been so worried about him. Read it and tell me how he is." She instructed Meg.

"I um...I will." Meg said, baffled by the unexpected letter. She had completely forgotten about him and the letters she was supposed to have written. Guiltily, she opened the letter and looked at her mother apprehensively.

"I will leave you to read it alone. I suppose it is awkward to have your mother hovering about at a time like this. Just let me know how he is. I don't want to pry." She said teasing gently. Meg forced a smile, though she really felt sick.

Quickly, she folded the paper and put it back in the envelope without reading it, and immediately sought Michelle, who was polishing silver in the kitchen with Hannah. She waved the letter while remaining in the doorway. Michelle got the message instantly and excused herself to follow Meg to her room. Settling herself on the bed so Michelle could have the chair, she stared in horror at the younger girl.

"I had forgotten all about poor Reggie. You read it for I don't think I can take it if he is wounded or anything." Meg complained. Michelle obediently opened the letter.

"Do you want me to read it out loud, or do you just want to hear about it." Michelle asked.

"Just tell me about it."

"He is well and looks forward to your next letter. It gives him strength to go on, knowing that you anticipate his letters also. He is going to Cambodia, but will continue to write. The army is policing a labor camp there for insurgent captives of the commune. He looks forward to the time when he will see you again." Michelle looked up, smiling as though pleased with herself. Meg was just relieved that she didn't have to mourn Reggie's demise or think about him being hurt. "Do you want me to reply to this one as well?" Michelle asked.

"Of course. You're doing such a splendid job. You were right. If it were left up to me, the entire French army would turn themselves over to the enemy and beg to be put out of their misery. I don't have your knack for writing. It is a gift, Michelle. You should write a novel." Meg said, pleased, and returned to addressing enrollment notices for the ballet classes.

"How is Reggie?" Madame Giry asked moments later.

"Oh, he is well and being transferred to Cambodia." Meg said cheerfully.

"Cambodia?" Madame Giry exclaimed. "That can't be good. It is a dreadful place. I understand that is where they keep prisoners of war. At least he is in the French army and not the National Guard." She shuddered but didn't press the issue. "We must be going soon. It is hard to say what state our studio is in and it could take days to make it presentable." Madame Giry said putting on her hat and gloves. A carriage arrived about the same time to take the Girys to the studio.

It was the first time since the uprising that Meg had ventured out into city outside of walking distance from the House of Clureoux. There had been notices posted in the daily news and on public bulletin boards that the citizens were now allowed to try to go back to work and business owners expected to try and recover what was left of their business. Meg expected that there would be some vandalism, but she was unprepared for the sight that awaited her at the studio. The building was a heap of rubble. There was little to identify it as the sturdy structure it had once been. Even the one wall that remain up right had a hole, roughly the size of a cannon ball, right in the center. The two women stared in alarm at the place where their livelihood had once stood.

"Did you mail the notices?" Madame Giry asked in stunned wonder.

"No. Not yet." Meg answered in the same monotone.

"Good. I don't think it will be necessary." Madame Giry continued in the same tone. "Did you say Reginald was going to Cambodia?"

"Yes." Meg answered automatically.

"That is too bad." Madame Giry commented dully.

"Why?"

"One of us needs to get married."

"Congratulations, Mother."

"Don't be ridiculous. I am too old. I am sorry that you can't wait for Reggie, but we already owe three months rent. Clair will not turn us out any time soon, but we can't impose on her generosity indefinitely." Madame Giry said flatly. "I'm sorry that I couldn't do better for us, though, you know, that I tried, Meg. But you need a husband, a rich one. You will not shirk your duty to your family."

Meg stared at her mother, incredulous. "Are you saying that you are disposed to sell me to the highest bidder!" She said, thinking of what Erik had said about her being prepared for such an arrangement.

"Do not be so crude! It is not as bad as a limited contract. At least with a marriage, you will have permanent security. Those of us, who married for love, found out that love may last for eternity, but money runs out fast, and sometimes the ones we love die and leave us with no support. We will not have any time to waste. There's a hundred and fifty girls for every eligible bachelor in the city. Clair will help. She is a well-received member of every social club in the city. Do not try to make me feel sorry for this. I am doing what is best for us in the long term. You are already a year beyond your prime, so don't get too proud and fussy. Sometimes an older gentleman is a better deal than an spoiled boy who needs a good spanking, anyway." Madame Giry talked quickly as they returned to the carriage, planning her strategy for Meg's debut. Meg felt her brain go numb.

"Mother, we will open another studio. I will audition for a few rolls. I am an actress. There is no need for us to act so desperate." Meg argued.

"You are_ not_ an actress! You are a ballerina!" Madame Giry stated flatly. "Actresses do not make good marriages. The best they can hope for is to be a mistress! A ballerina has to have an excellent reputation and even then she may be scorned by some."

Meg argued with her mother during the carriage ride back to the boarding house. Meg had begun to think of it as home. Now it was a matter of time and circumstance that would determine whether or not it remained that way.

Madame Giry wasted no time in taking the news of the studio being in ruins to Aunt Clair. Meg listened in dread as Aunt Clair agreed with Madame Giry that it was best for Meg to get married, the richer the husband the better. She had hoped that Aunt Clair would declare it a foolish notion and invite them to stay at the boarding house without charge until they could find another studio or find adequate employment. She even tried to hint at it to Aunt Clair, when Madame Giry was out of hearing distance.

"Don't be silly, child." Aunt Clair said indulgently. "I married Alec under almost identical circumstances. Your mother married for love and she has had to work all of her life just to put food in your mouth. I can't believe that you don't want a better life for her than that. Now, don't be sad, darling. This is going to be exciting. I know you must be thinking about Reggie. It is too bad that he didn't propose before leaving for Cambodia. But his fortune is only a modest one at best, I believe. He is the only son, and heir, but still from a military family. You cannot pine away for the years he still must serve."

Meg wanted to say that she didn't care about Reggie, but even he was looking pretty good at the moment. Her heart weighed heavy in her chest. She wanted to cry, but it would serve no purpose in the end. The rest of the household did not share her despair, with the exception of Michelle. The younger girl did try to encourage her, with stories of other arranged marriages that had worked out for the better. Meg, however, remained unconvinced. Uncle Alec and several other gentleman boarders expressed their approval of Madame Girys decision. They all agreed that it wouldn't prove too difficult for Meg to catch the eye of many fine gentlemen.

Aunt Clair and Madame Giry discussed the city's eligible men and their fortunes in the main parlor with two other ladies who were staying the week at the house, while the men had brandies in the library after dinner. Meg's forthcoming betrothal was the subject on everyone's lips that evening. Aunt Clair declared that it was good to get life back to normal after the uprising of the Paris Commune, which over less than two weeks after it began. Everyone else agreed except Meg. There was nothing normal about what was happening to her.

Long after everyone else retired peacefully, for the evening, Meg tosses and turned in her bed. Once she thought that she heard someone cry out. She listened for the sound again, but heard nothing. Just when she thought that she had imagined it, she heard it again. It was an anguished cry. A chill went through her. After putting on a dressing gown, of cream lace trimmed with pale blue ribbon and tiny bows, she lit a single candle and carefully stepped out into the hall. It was so distant and quiet that it couldn't have possibly come from the second or third floor. There were no bedrooms on the main floor and yet Meg knew this time that she had not imagined it. Jacques and Hannah had a garret room on the fourth level, but it didn't come from that direction. Gently, Meg made her way down the hall. She heard a door open and froze.

"I thought I heard something." Michelle whispered. Meg turned around, putting her finger to her lips and motioned for Michelle to follow her. Meg didn't relish encountering a mysterious entity in the dark while alone.

On a hunch, Meg went to the kitchen and to the cellar door. Michelle started to say something, but Meg quieted her and opened the cellar door. The room was dark as dusty as it ever was. Michelle started to pull Meg back. Another cry of pain rang out louder.

"Help me!" Meg whispered and handed the candle to Michelle, while she pulled the heavy table away from the bookcase with all her might. Michelle stared in horror as Meg pulled the door, masquerading as a bookcase, open and slipped through the opening. The room was dark, but there was a tortured presence within, whimpering. There was nothing in Meg's experience that drove her to embark upon this adventure except that in her mind it was Erik in the room behind the bookcase and he was hurt. No one else knew of the rooms existence. "Bring me the candle!" Meg ordered. Michelle did as she was told. Meg held the candle high to cast the room in as much light as the candle would afford. Meg barely recognized the boy on the floor wrapped in a filthy blanket. "Garrick!" She cried out in a hoarse whisper. Michelle looked at the youth and stifled a scream. Garrick lay shaking violently, his eyes glazed with pain. Bloody bandages covered his arms and hands. His scraped and cut knees were exposed through the torn and grimy pants that he wore. He was alone in the room. There was no evidence of anyone else, being there.

Meg knelt down to touch his forehead. He was hot with fever and his lips were cracked and swollen. He emitted a whooshing sound as he breathed rapidly.

"Get a bucket of water and some towels!" Meg ordered and Michelle instantly obeyed. "Garrick, talk to me. It's Meg." She said stroking his cheek. He didn't answer but his breathing slowed slightly. She continued to talk to him quietly, though he was beyond responding, until Michelle arrived with the bucket of water and clean towels. Next, she ordered brandy and a spoon, sheets that could be to be torn into bandages, and clean blankets. Michelle brought the requested items quickly.

Meg recognized the duvet from the one Erik had let her use that night she followed him into the underground. She was right to believe that Erik had brought the boy here. But there were so many other questions that were of a more pressing nature, like what had happened to Garrick and where was Erik now. Was he also wounded somewhere? The deep puncture wounds near the boy's neck almost gave rise to the superstition surrounding vampires in the city. Meg shuddered involuntarily.

Meg spooned the brandy between the boys cracked lips, and clenched teeth while cradling his head in her lap and wished that she knew what she was doing. Although she had never done anything like it before she instinctively bathed his wounds by squeezing water from a clean towel and replaced the blood soaked bandages with new, clean ones. She fought the wave of nausea that washed over her when she saw the wound on his arm.

Michelle hovered until Meg told her to go back to bed and warned her not speak of Garrick to any of the others. Michelle had no sooner left than Erik entered through the other door leading from the tunnel. Meg gasped in surprise but, in truth, was more than pleased to see him. He carried the feather tick, an oil lantern and he was not wearing the mask. Meg was a little shocked by his disfigurement, but she would not show it. He didn't try to hide it either. He didn't look as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

"How did you know he was here?" Erik asked wearily. It was then that she noticed his clothes, and hair, dirty beyond belief. He sagged with the weight of his burden as he placed the feather mattress on the floor.

"I heard him crying out. What happened?" Meg asked softly.

"He was attacked by a police dog. The police were looking for insurgents and found the entrance by the laundry. They sent the dogs in first, then started shooting. The sound waves caused a cave in, trapping us. I had to bring him here. It was the best choice. There isn't much that the basements of Paris have to offer that beats this." Erik looked around the small room.

"You are tired."

"I have been digging us out of there for the last ten hours. I am thirsty."

"I'll get some fresh water." She said and quickly returned with two buckets of fresh water, towels, and a cup. He drank greedily, then wiping the excess water from his lips, his fingers instinctively sought the mask. Meg watched with heartache as he discovered its absence. He kept the distorted portion of his face turned from her. She could tell that he was embarrassed. As much as she wanted to go to him and tell him that it didn't matter, that she saw beyond the birth defect, she knew that it mattered to him.

"You have done enough and I thank you. Please go." He said, not looking at her.

"I want to help. If you need anything, I will come back."

"I don't need anything else. I'd rather that you forget that we are here." He said coolly.

"But Garrick... He is very ill. You cannot do everything for him. You need your rest, too. Michelle and I can help. We will keep your secret. Please, let me help."

"If I need your help, I will ask." He said with a finality that sank Meg's hopes that he might need her. Meg left quietly.

Erik was grateful that she didn't push the issue. He was mortified that she had seen his face without the mask. In the urgency of escaping the cave in, he'd forgotten it. It was too hot and uncomfortable to wear while he was digging and Garrick was still in shock from the dog attack and wouldn't have known or cared if Erik was wearing it. It wasn't lost on him that Meg didn't give a reaction to his exposure. She must have hidden it carefully. Even he couldn't look into a mirror without experiencing revulsion.

He held a cup of water to Garrick's lips and coaxed him into swallowing some of it. The boy fevered and shook violently at times. Erik wondered if he was prolonging the boy's life or his eventual dying. Meg had left the bottle of brandy and Erik diluted it with water and administered it to the boy. It seemed to help. Garrick stopped shaking quite so vigorously and drifted into an agitated doze. The boy lay on the duvet covered with two blankets, so Erik took the feather tick for himself and eased his aching body on to it. He didn't sleep much but was still able to soak up enough rest here and there to revive himself enough to care for the boy when he cried out.

Erik woke again to Garrick's cry and gave him some of the diluted brandy. Erik checked his pocket watch. It was about seven o'clock in the morning. He couldn't expect the boy to live on water and brandy and there was no way that he could chew solid food. He needed some chicken broth and juices; perhaps some milk or cream would put some thing substantial in his belly. He though of Meg. He didn't need her, he decided. There was Francois. It wouldn't be a good time to venture out into the street until dusk or after dark. The boy couldn't go another twelve hours without food. Maybe he needed Meg after all.

As if she had read his mind and materialized just for him, he heard a tiny knock and stared ineffectually as she walked in, carrying a tray of food. The smell greeted him, tantalizing his nostrils and taunting his stomach. Ham, cheese, croissants and eggs filled a plate. Coffee with cream and sugar and juice also occupied the tray.

"I don't know what we can give Garrick." She said, again reading his mind. "But maybe some cream will stick to his ribs and give him some strength to heal on. I brought a small pitcher of it for him. I won't stay. I know it makes you uncomfortable for me to see you without your mask." She said.

"Could we postpone the insults until after breakfast?" He asked without resentment. He was glad that she'd ignored his disregard of her offer to help.

"Yes, we can. I will return with more at lunch."

"With more food or insults?"

"Yes."


	12. Chapter Twelve

Meg met Jacques in the kitchen, when she returned from the cellar. He looked at her suspiciously.

"Don't ask me anything, Jacques." She said boldly. "I can't tell you because you could be in danger if you knew. So pretend you didn't see me."

"Just tell me you aren't hiding your lover in the cellar." He joked mildly.

"As a matter of fact, I am, but I warned you not to ask." She looked him squarely in the eye, daring him to challenge her.

"Mademoiselle. This cannot be so. Your mother and aunt will be distraught and angry if you elope." He said urgently.

"They plan to sell me to the highest bidder. I do not care any more if they are angry. I am angry! There is a young man who was attacked by a police dog. He may even die. If he is taken to the hospital, he will be arrested. It will be taken for granted that he was part of the uprising, for he has no one to vouch for him."

"He is a proletariat then." Jacques said hopefully.

"_Was_ a proletariat. Right now, he is half-starved and very sick." Meg said, knowing that Jacques would keep her secret if he thought she was helping one of the less fortunate working class. "Now, don't ask me any more." She started to leave, but thought of something else. "Don't go down into the cellar until I say so. He will not know you and may mistake you for an enemy. Please, do not attempt to investigate. I have told you the truth and I need you to keep my secret."

"Yes, Mademoiselle. You are right. I will not ask any more questions."

Meg did not go back down into the cellar until after lunch and every one was busy with their afternoon schedule. Jacques had prepared a tray laden with soup and bread for her to take down into the cellar without her even asking.

"Thank you, Jacques. I owe you a great debt of gratitude." Meg said honestly.

"No, Mademoiselle. It gives me hope for the rest of the human race to know that there are still people like you. Your man is very lucky to have you. Tell him I said so, if you like." He said in all sincerity.

"Yes, I think I will." She laughed in spite of herself. "Do you have some extra broth?" She asked thinking of Garrick needing something he didn't have to chew.

Erik was asleep on the floor when Meg opened the door. He woke, rising instantly. Turning his face away from her, he composed himself. Meg lit two candles, she'd brought, and extinguished the lamp.

"You should have knocked." He scolded.

"How is he?" Meg asked, putting the tray down on the bench.

"He is calmer, but still in shock and feverish." He said, looking down on the youth. Garrick looked much the same as he had earlier to Meg. He still trembled with chills and fever.

"I will bathe his forehead with cool water. It may help to bring down the fever." She offered.

"He is also chilled and shivering. We do not bring down the fever too quickly. It is doing its work to fight the infection." Erik said.

"This is for you." Meg told him gesturing toward the tray. "The extra cup of broth is for Garrick. I will give it to him so you can eat."

"Thank you, but you do not have to do this for me." He said, but took bowl and sat down on the little bench to eat the soup.

"I am doing it for Garrick." She knelt down beside the boy, took the broth and spooned it into his mouth. She may have imagined it but Garrick seemed to be calmer and able to open his mouth just a little more. Meg couldn't see Erik because her back was too him. She knew that he was still uncomfortable without the mask and she wondered at why he didn't leave Garrick to go and get it.

"I didn't realize, when I brought him here that he would cry out so loud that anyone could hear him." Erik said, as though he was reading her thoughts. "I can't leave him. If he were to become terrified and scream, we would be found out."

"I will stay with him." Meg offered.

"How can you do that? You will be missed. Your mother has not let you out of her sight in all these years. Don't tell me that she has changed. I don't believe it."

"I just don't care any more, I guess. Let them worry." Meg said dispassionately.

"Our little Meg is standing up to her mother! When did this happen?" Erik mused mockingly.

"When she decided to sell me into matrimony. I did not want to believe it, but you were right, after all."

"Has this come about just recently? Have you had any offers?" He inquired, as though it was of the same importance as the weather.

"No. I just found out yesterday, when we found out that the studio was destroyed in the uprising. We owe money for renovating the studio and rent for three months. Mother does not feel that we can open another studio. She thinks that it is better that I marry someone with a lot of money soon."

"What about Reggie? He seemed interested enough."

"Who's side are you on! Reggie has been transferred to Cambodia. Who knows how long he'll be gone? Besides, I could never marry Reggie."

"Why?" Erik pressed her.

"Because he doesn't have enough money!" Meg said with bitter sarcasm. "And because I don't love him!"

"Oh, you still think that matters!" Erik half laughed at her response.

"Yes, I do!"

"You have been surrounded by illusion for too long. Happily-Ever-Afters are for fairy tales, Meg, and they were destroyed in the fire along with the theater."

"Why did I think that you would be different than the rest of them? I was stupid to think that anyone cares what I want." She shook her heard in disgust.

"Does anybody get what they want?" Erik spoke softly, yet the timbre of his voice resonated in the little room, striking a bittersweet chord in her heart. "You have been here too long already." He gathered up the used utensils and arranged them strategically on the tray so she could carry them. "My compliments and gratitude to the chef." She was being dismissed. He kept his face adverted as she left.

Jacques took the tray from her when she entered the kitchen. "You do not look like things are going well. I hope he is not worse." He said, then looking at the tray added, "His appetite seems to be good."

Meg forced a smile. "He sends his compliments and his gratitude." Jacques beamed his pleasure.

"Madame Giry is asking about you, Meg." Michelle said from the doorway.

"I am coming." Meg answered, quickly brushing some dust from her skirt and tucking a straying strand of hair behind her ear.

"Are you alright?" Meg asked Michelle, who was pressing both hands against her lower back.

"A little backache is all. It will go away in a minute. It usually does."

"Go put your feet up and don't fret." She said automatically. It was what she'd heard her mother instruct the younger girl many times though she wasn't entirely sure why. It just sounded like good advice.

Madame Giry was in the main parlor with Aunt Clair. The two women barely glanced her way when she walked in. "Where have you been?" Was all her mother said, before motioning for Meg to sit down and reciting a rehearsed list of instructions, without waiting for an answer. "There are some things that you need to know about your expected behavior. First, you will not go anywhere without a chaperone. I will accompany you to each event. Second, when you are approached by an interested gentleman, at a party, do not mention money. It is vulgar to talk about such things in polite company. Third, do not try to be witty. It is better in the beginning, that you smile, nod and only make agreeable comments. And fourth, do not, under any circumstance, talk about politics or religion. If you are asked about your views, smile and say it is all very confusing to you."

"Carry yourself with your back straight." Aunt Clair spoke and motioned for her to stand. Meg obeyed. "Yes, you already have extraordinary posture and bone structure. You are a dancer, after all, and know these things already. Carry your head with your chin up, but your eyes cast downward. Do not look directly into a man's eyes. It is too bold and will give the wrong message." The etiquette lesson continued with which fork to use, when and how to use a napkin. Meg already knew these things, but decided to let Aunt Clair continue.

Adrien Meadows, an American, tenant and bachelor, trounced down the stairs. He made for the doorway with his overcoat.

"Rumor has it you, Madame Giry, are fixing for your daughter to get married." He slid his arms into the sleeves of his coat. "I'd be honored to take her off your hands." A charming smile slid across his face, revealing slightly crooked teeth. It was hard for Meg not to smile back. Madame Giry and Aunt Clair fixed him with reproving stares. He was a nice fellow, but Meg doubted his bank account would satisfy her mother. "I won't be back for dinner this evening," he announced with a wink. "Good afternoon, ladies"

"Now, Meg, we must order you a new dress... several new dresses." Aunt Clair brought Meg's attention back to the foreboding marriage entrapment. "A velvet, midnight blue, I think..."

"I wanted to know if you think a bustle is best or a tiered skirt. Baby blue silk," Her mother interrupted, "with black trim." Meg sank into a chair, her brain lost to the debated dress that would snag her a wealthy husband.

"Black and blue. I'll look like a bruise." Meg muttered, sourly.

Her mother gave her a disapproving look. "I wish you would be more cooperative with me in this decision. It's the best for both of us." Madame Giry tried to smile encouragingly. We have an appointment with Madame Balmforth this afternoon. Try to have some idea of what you want so we do not have to take up too much of her time."

"Black, I think, would be nice. How about scarlet?" Meg suggested, knowing that her choices would be considered grossly inappropriate. Meg knew that the colors of a costume were used to convey the nature of a character as much as the dialog in a good production. Maybe she should ask Erik. He would know what she should wear for her performance as a gold digger.

"Why must you make this more difficult than necessary? Madame Giry scolded.

"How about gold?" Meg answered.

"The carriage is here, Madame." Hannah announced entering the parlor.

"I think gold is in an excellent choice, Dear." Aunt Clair commented as the women prepared to leave for Madame Balmforth's salon and dress shop.

The afternoon was long and tedious for Meg. She was measured and fitted for underwear, corsets, stockings and shoes. Lengthy discussions determining what shades were best for he, whether she should wear her hair up or down and if she should carry a fan held little interest for her. If they had asked what color she wanted to be buried in, it would have been of the same consequence. She didn't care.

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Erik paced the little room restlessly. Garrick didn't seem to have improved and Erik was growing impatient. There were so many things that he needed to be doing. Playing nurse to Garrick was proving to be more bothersome than it was worth. He wanted to retrieve his mask and get on with his plans to buy the Chateau de Bagen. He'd initially planned on Garrick making the transaction for him. It was too much risk to attend the closing purchase meeting himself. The realtor might decide not to sell. He had more than enough money to buy the house, but it required that someone else go to the bank, withdraw the money and close the sale. It also required his signature. He planned on Garrick bringing him the papers to sign, then returning them to the realtor for completion.

In a selfish moment he thought of abandoning Garrick to the care of Meg. She would take care of him, no doubt. He didn't owe the boy anything really. But he would still be left with the problem of how to get someone else to help him with the sale. He knew he could trust Garrick. The boy hadn't failed him yet. In fact, he was posting a letter for Erik when he was hounded by the police and attacked. Erik had already invested too much time, educating and nursing the boy back to health to give up on him now.

With growing irritation, Erik acknowledged that he had become more dependent on people than he was comfortable with. Before the disaster at the Opera Populaire, he could move about on the fringes of society with a minimum of obstacles. As a wanted man, he was even more trapped by his disfigurement. Without the hideous, misshapen side of his countenance, he could have easily been lost in the crowd. He'd actually seen an artist's depiction of his likeness, including the deformity in the newspaper soon after the disaster. Enough people had seen him when Christine had exposed him to the police at the Opera Populaire, that there would be no shortage of witnesses eager to incriminate him. He had risked it all, that night, and lost.

In spite of his agitation and unrest, he felt a loyalty to Garrick that was both affectionate and burdensome. If would have been inexcusable to not feel kindly toward the boy. He had a certain lack of pretense that one might even feel protective of such naivete and honesty, if he were to allow it.

His thoughts drifted to Meg. He'd become dependent on her as well, and if he were to permit such an error, he could have let his emotions draw him into caring deeply for her. She'd broken down his defenses a little when she gave no indication that she was offended by his misbegotten appearance. Neither was she so troubled by it that she wouldn't speak of it. Even his mother had refused to talk about it. Undoubtedly, she had done her maternal best to pretend that his face was whole.

When Meg had announced her mother's plans to marry her off to a wealthy husband, Eirk was not surprised, but neither was he pleased. He didn't want to analyze why it bothered him, but perhaps it was guilt that made him ill at the thought. Meg had made it clear that she was attracted to him, but he didn't have to analyze that one. That just plain scared him. He should be delighted that she was going to be gone from his life. He would be happily ensconced in the Chateau de Bagen with his music, his anonymous career in architectural design and his solitude, while she was financially secure in another man's arms. His stomach tightened. It was the thought of another man touching her that sickened him, he discovered, dolefully.

He should have been more accepting of Christine's wedded bliss if her happiness was all he wanted. But the brutal truth was that he'd wanted her for himself. In retrospect, he did want Christine to have a good life. It would afford him no joy to find her abused or neglected. A little dissatisfaction, on her part, would have suited him well enough. It didn't seem too much to ask for.

"M'sir." The voice was barely more than a whisper. Garrick lay pale and weak but conscious on the makeshift bed. Erik averted his face so that the boy would not see the deformity.

"You are awake. That is good. How are you feeling?" Erik already had a pretty good idea, but he needed to ask.

"I hurt." Erik could just make out Garrick's words.

"That means that everything is still attached and is some working order. I have been wondering if you going to leave us, so I am pleased to hear it." Erik said softly and put his hand on the boys forehead. It was cool. The fever had broke and a sheen of perspiration on his brow glowed in the lamplight. "Drink this." Erik put a cup of water to the boy's lips, while supporting his head under one arm. Garrick drank some, but collapsed backward, after just a minimal effort. His eyes drooped heavily and instantly he was asleep. Erik looked at him with a certain pride. The boy had a fighting will to survive and that was good. He just might make an excellent assistant in time. The boy was sleeping soundly now, without the tremors that racked his body earlier.

Leaving the lamp lit so Garrick wouldn't find himself in the dark when he woke, Erik returned to the room under the laundry to retrieve his mask and the architectural designs he'd been working on. He took the time to fill a bucket with water from the leaking water line, bathe, shave and put on clean clothes. There were fewer leaky pipes under the posher neighbor hoods and he didn't want to ask Meg to bring him water to bathe with. His derelict appearance bothered him. It had been hours since he'd worn the mask and in spite of the freedom it seemed to afford, he might as well been naked. But as he'd never been naked in the company of a woman before, he really had nothing to compare it to. It had been humiliating for him that Meg had seen his face without the mask and yet it was strange to him of how little it bothered her.

The passage to the laundry was blocked and he had only one clean suit of clothes that he'd retrieved from the room, along with his masks and other important items. He discarded the clothes he'd been wearing. They were ruined. He did not return to the boarding house immediately. Instead, he hid his important possessions in a narrow crevice in the tunnel wall, within short walking distance of the House of Clureoux. He needed to collect the profits of his opium deals no later than that evening. It wouldn't do to let his associates think that he was inconsistent.

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Meg surreptitiously entered the little room, behind the cellar, where Garrick lay sleeping peacefully to find Erik gone. She ignored the disappointment and knelt down and touched the brow of the sleeping boy. It was cool. Somehow, it made all the difference that he would not have left the boy in fever and shock. He heart warmed at thought of how he'd stayed with the young man until the fever broke. He was loyal and caring. It must have been difficult for him to go so long without his mask. She didn't blame him for leaving to get it. He would have known that she would have checked on Garrick. She warmed, again, at the thought that he trusted her.

The room was stark and bare except for the filthy duvet, which Garrick lay upon, the bare feather mattress Erik brought and the bench. The large cellar was filled with cast off furniture and clothing. Perhaps she could find something to give the tiny room some cheer. Taking a lighted candle with her, she pushed the book case open as far as she could, careful not to make more noise than necessary.

The women had only recently returned from their shopping experience. Aunt Clair was resting in her room before dinner and Madame Giry was in her room, going over their finances and drafting letters of apology and promise to send to their creditors. Jacques was in the kitchen. Hannah could hear something and investigate, but Meg didn't think that Jacques would let her go down into the cellar. There wouldn't be a better time to scrounge around in the dusty storage room than now.

Meg found two thin feather ticks stored in an old, ornate cedar chest. They were clean and smelled of cedar. The two of them, together, would make a soft bed for Erik and Garrick could use the one that Erik brought from his room under the laundry. The cedar chest would make a handsome addition as well. She found a ceramic chamber pot and two candelabras that would mount on the wall. She was pleased to find that the candelabras were intended for the little room, as the wall mounts were still there and they fit perfectly.

Another trunk yielded men's clothing, albeit out of stye and of orange silk. It was satin breeches and coat worn by servants or some overdressed fop. A white, silk shirt, of some minor wear, had some possibilities. The trunk further produced a pair of leather shoes that still had some life left in them. Another search of the old wardrobe gave rise to a pair of cotton trousers with little moth-induced damage. She would get Hannah to wash them later for Garrick.

She was trying to shove the cedar chest into the room when Garrick woke up.

"I'm sorry I woke you." Meg said, breathing deeply from the exertion. He stared at her with wide, curious eyes. With a last great effort, Meg pushed the chest into the room. "Can I help you with anything?" She asked. He shook his head in wonderment. "I will bring some dinner later, but I have to go now. I have to change before dinner." She smiled at him, pleased that he was making some recovery and left to change out of her dust-covered clothing.

"You are looking better, my dear." Madame Giry commented cheerfully at dinner. Meg smiled in spite of herself. Her thoughts were on her secret guests in the basement room. "I thought a little shopping trip would cheer you up." Meg barely heard her mother as she thought of how she could make the make the little room behind the cellar more inviting.

Meg remained at the dinner table a little longer than necessary so no one would question her in leaving too quickly. She even helped Hannah clear the table and joined her mother and Aunt Clair in the main parlor to listen their harmless gossip. Uncle Alec smoked a cigar and read his paper. When she sensed that everyone was absorbed with their own agenda, she gathered some candles, a ceramic wash basin and pitcher and some sachets filled with dried lavender. She was almost ready to go back down in the basement room when a thought came through that Garrick was about the same size as the American. He had said that he wouldn't be returning this evening. Maybe he had a few extra clothes that he wouldn't miss. She crept up three flights of stairs to the Adrien Meadows's tiny loft and found that indeed, he had a couple of pairs of trousers a even a few shirts that she had never seen him wear. He had several pairs of stockings that all looked the same, how would he know which pair he was missing? She added a long white night shirt, pants, and a pair of stockings to her pillage.

Garrick was alone when she made her way down stairs. He was awake and she asked him if there was anything that he would like to eat if he had his choice. He instantly replied that he would like some bread and butter soaked in warm milk. Meg met his request and made two more excursions to gather clean sheets, another blanket, towels and warm water for Garrick to bathe.

She was bringing the bucket of water and clean towels when she saw Erik standing in the center of the room staring at the improvements in wonderment. He wore a black suit and full cape, the mask in place. She stared. He turned when she entered. His lips parted slowly as if he started to say something but changed his mind. A silent awareness passed between them like a tangible cord that held them spellbound, in a primal communication. Erik recovered first, turning from her and removing the cape, with a flourish.

"I see you've been playing house." He said breaking the mood with his sarcasm.

"I was just going to help Garrick bathe and put on clean clothes. He can't remain in those filthy rags. I borrowed some extra clothes from a tenant."

"I'll help him. How did you manage to talk a tenant into loaning his clothes?" Erik inquired doubtfully, looking at her with uncertain regard.

"He doesn't know yet."

"I thought as much. You are putting us and yourself at risk. I must ask you to stop this. I can take care of Garrick, now. And as much as I acknowledge your kindness, if you don't stop, we will have to leave for our own protection."

"Please don't leave!" The words were out before she could stop them.

"I have no intention of leaving just now. But, of course, as soon as Garrick is well enough to travel, we must."

"Where will you go?"

"You might as well know, because I need your help to accomplish it. I am buying a house." Erik announced.

"What? Where? How did you get the money to buy a house?"

"You should know better than to ask such a question. It's in the country and that's all you need to know. I need you to go to the bank for me and get the money, then bring me the deed and the bill of sale to sign. I will be further in your debt, but I have no one else." He looked at Garrick, who watched the exchange with silent interest.

"How am I going to accomplish that? You know that Mother hardly lets me out of her sight. It's even worse now that she is planning a _society marriage _for me." Meg placed caustic emphasis on the words. "She says that I am to have a chaperone, wherever I go."

"How is it that you are here now and Madame Giry does not know?" Erik flinched inwardly at her bitterness. It was aimed at him and he knew it.

"She is with Aunt Clair, in the parlor and she probably thinks that I am with Michelle or in the kitchen with Jacques."

"She is slipping, then. We will think of something." He said, aware of his involuntary use of the plural pronoun. He was slipping also.

Meg returned to the parlor to find Madame Giry and Aunt Clair exactly where she'd left them earlier. Uncle Alec, too, hadn't left his paper, although his cigar was much shorter. Maybe it wouldn't be too difficult to disappear for a few hours to buy a house in the county, she thought .

Erik was buying a house. Not once had he confided that intended for her to be a part of the deal, except to do the final transaction. If Garrick had been well, he wouldn't have needed her at all. The thought rankled in her mind that he was using her again. This time was really no less insulting than the last. She would do as he asked, but she would do it out of love. If there was any hope at all that he might have the tiniest seed of affection for her, she would have taken it gladly. But outside of the fact that he had turned to her in his desperation, she had very little to go on.

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Meg had no way of knowing what Garrick saw when she left the basement room. He saw the profile of a man who closed his eyes tightly and clenched his fist as he fought back an emotion, his brow furrowing momentarily. He'd also seen earlier how pleased Erik had been to come into the little room and see the results of Meg's loving contribution, and he felt the atmosphere in the room crackle with an invisible energy when Erik and Meg were in the room together.

In the exchange between Meg and Erik, he'd heard something of even more profound interest to his ears. He'd heard Erik use the word, 'we', in reference to himself and Erik. A flood of relief, coupled with gratitude washed through him. Erik was not going to leave him to fend for himself now that he was useless. Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes. Erik was a good man, he concluded. Garrick would live to serve his master and do everything in his power to help Meg win him. Erik deserved a woman like Meg.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Sorry I haven't been current with my "thank-you"s. I'm quite attached to each one of your reviews. They _and you_ inspire me to go on and write each chapter. I check constantly to see if they are any new reviews. So, please feel free to keep it comin'!**

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_**brigand, Captain Oblivious, erikslove16, Princess Persephone, HPROXMYSOX, L.B. the Daft Penguin, daferretgirl, La Romantique Perdue, Spunky-hyper-girl, Sue, Renee17, Dominique Vida, Jen Lennon, Golden-Haze, Blissful Rose, phantomlover22, Icedevimon13, ellina HOPE, charity, DragonheartRAB, Mademoiselle Justicia, and Misty Bryer...Thank you, Misty, for your appreciation of my favorite lines... I love y'all and hope you'll continue to read, review, and love this story!**_

**Your obedient servant,**

"**Shye Mareck"**

Erik watched in helpless horror as Garrick's muscles were seized by another spasm. Lockjaw had set in just as he suspected it would. The only thing the boy's stomach could tolerate was milk and light cream. The young man's body convulsed with each spasm, but he remained conscious. Erik administered light doses of opium tincture so the boy could get some sleep here and there. Five days had passed since the boy had been attacked. Erik hadn't left the boy's side in the last two days. A medical journal lay open to the page describing the symptoms and treatment of lockjaw or tetanus, as it was called. Keeping the patient calm with spirits was the only prescribed treatment outside of the administration of plenty of liquids to avoid dehydration. The journal was another example of Meg resourcefulness and the unintentional generosity of a retired doctor, living upstairs. The average length of the illness was between fourteen to twenty-five days. The most crucial, being the first fourteen. If he could survive the first two weeks, everyday afterward increased his chances of survival. The journal stated that only four in ten of those infected survived the first two weeks, and three of those lived through the next ten days.

Erik sat on his mattress, minus his formal coat and vest, with his legs stretched out in front of him, staring at his boots, when Meg walked in. His own muscles cramped from the lack of exercise. He almost didn't hear her come in. Her coming and goings had become so common place that he didn't even question her right to be there anymore. She placed a tray of hot food and a book on the cedar chest and retrieved the dirty dishes from lunch.

"Can you get away later tonight to stay with Garrick?" Erik asked. "I have some errands to attend to." It still bothered him that he was so dependant on another person, but even more so that he was dependant on a woman. He was angry with himself, but inadvertently, found that he was angry with her as well. He tried not to show it.

"I think so, but it will be late. I hate to be gone too long before Mother is in bed. About ten-thirty or eleven o'clock, I think."

"Good."

"How is he doing?" Meg gestured toward Garrick.

"Ask him. He can talk and he knows better than I." Erik stated irritably. Meg repeated the question to Garrick, after giving Erik a look that bespoke her own irritation. His moods must wearing on her, as well.

"Better, I think." Garrick forced the words out, though he could just barely move his mouth.

"I brought some liniment. Uncle Alec uses it for his gout. I thought it might help. Where do you need it the most?" Meg asked the boy.

"My legs," was the thin reply.

"I'll do it." Erik cut in. Watching her massage the camphorated oil into Garrick's aching muscles would do nothing for his own maladjusted back and sour disposition.

"I brought something else. It's a novel, the French translation of _The Last of the Mohicans _by James Fenimore CooperAunt Clair likes American authors. You might even read it out loud to Garrick."

"I'll think about it." Erik responded. It was a good idea, he admitted, grudgingly and silently. Meg left without adding further comment.

Erik helped Garrick eat, then helped himself to what was left of the food. Afterward, he rubbed the camphorated oil on Garrick's limbs, neck and back. It did seem to help the relax the muscles. The gratitude in Garrick's eyes was good for Erik as well. It wasn't often that he experienced such a look.

He adjusted the oil lamp for a brighter flame, propped himself against the wall while sitting on his own bed and began to read. He continued until Garrick's eyes drooped in fatigue, then he closed the book. It surprised him a little that he had enjoyed the story as much as he did. He'd been a little prejudiced toward the Americans, perceiving them to be ignorant as well as arrogant. He was sufficiently humbled by the experience that he made a mental reminder to read more American literature.

He was reflecting on the book when Meg entered again. The time must have passed much more quickly than he thought. Garrick was asleep, but Erik knew it wouldn't last for long. The spasms would return and the poor boy would be racked again with pain. He didn't rise immediately, but watched Meg openly as she closed the door behind her.

She wore a light blue dressing gown of sheer lace and satin. It was a pretty thing; not too revealing and yet he wished, guiltily, that it was. He wondered briefly if she wore it for his benefit. Errantly, he wished that she had, but was not so foolish as to speak of it. Straight blond hair hung over one delicate shoulder. Every time Meg walked into the room, she brought a presence so sweet and provocative that he felt his gut tighten with desire. He needed to get out of the house, before he was so lovesick that he wouldn't be able to form a logical thought in his head.

"Did you change your mind about leaving?" Meg asked him when he just sat there looking at her.

"No, but I think my backside in numb from sitting here so long that I don't think I can move."

"Let me help." She said, standing in front of him and reaching out with both hands. He grasped her out stretched hands and used the leverage to pull himself into an upright position, bringing them face to face.

They stood, hands clasped, face to face, each waiting for the other to break the contact. Neither moved, until Erik lowered his head slightly and Meg closed the distance between them. Lips met. Erik kissed her. Freeing his hands from hers, he stroked her hair, burying his fingers in the softness. His lips moved to her brow, then he pulled her close, wrapping her in a tight embrace. Her head fit under his chin, and her cheek was pressed to his chest. An ache in his heart rose to form a lump in his throat. The joy of promise was suffocated by the bitterness of regret. He knew that he would indeed regret taking the encounter any further.

In the last few months, he's had many opportunities to wonder at what kind of man he was. Christine had done that for him. He'd been forced to ask himself some hard questions, like how far would he have gone in trying to force her into loving him? What kind of life could they have had? In the end, there would have been nothing but bitterness and hate between them. He would never stop loving her. Christine was his angel, ethereal and exquisite, but Meg was real. He felt her heart beating next to his, breathed her scent and felt her softness. She had risked her own safety to protect him. There was no chance that he would hurt her now, at least not deliberately. And she would be hurt if he allowed her to believe that they had a future together. Gently, he pushed her away.

"I must leave." His words reverberated huskily in his chest. Without looking at her, he gathered his coat and hat and left without another word. Sappy words of goodbye and 'it's all for your own good' were better left unsaid.

Erik found blissful solitude on the banks of the Seine. A sliver of a new moon hung in the sky surrounded by glittering starlight. It was a chilly night, yet the cool breeze did nothing to quell the heat radiating from him. He'd been running for several miles, but still had more energy than he knew what to do with. His life lacked purpose, leaving him with an abundance of potential and ability and nowhere to apply it. He'd lost some interest in his designs since Garrick was attacked. He had no place to work on them and his mind was distracted.

Who ever said that idle hands were the devil's work shop, knew what they were talking about. No one else would be so pleased with the thoughts that formed in Erik's brain, when he was in Meg's presence. He found thin consolation that sin lie not in temptation but in the act of sin.

Erik collected his mail, before returning to the basement room. A letter from the realtor confirmed that the Chateau de Bagen was still on the market and could be sold immediately. In the morning, Meg would make the final transaction for the purchase of the Chateau de Bagen, then it would be his. Garrick was still in no shape to make the journey. It would take at least a day to make the trip by carriage. Again, he thought of abandoning the boy, but something inside of him taunted him as being a coward. What kind of man was he that he would do such a thing to a loyal assistant? He would stay until Garrick could travel safely. It occurred to him in a startling revelation that he'd changed. It wasn't too long ago that he would have selfishly deserted anyone and everyone to seek his own comfort and preservation.

Christine had done that for him, he decided. He had learned that real love is not a selfish thing, but a gift of such a nature that it freed a soul to exist wholly on its own. Love was not a trap that forced fidelity but a voluntary power that bound one eternal soul to another. His bond with Christine was not weakened by his feelings for Meg, he discovered somewhat surprised. His love for Christine had set her free to find her own happiness. He would have to do the same thing for Meg, even if it hurt both of them in the beginning. He would survive on the knowledge that it was for her better good.

Erik's good intentions were almost forgotten when he found Meg asleep on his bed. The candles cast her in a golden glow as she lay on her side, her pale hair spread out like a gilded halo in contrast to the dark lashes resting on her cheek. Erik hesitated to wake her but the alternative wasn't such a good idea either. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy seeing her asleep on his bed, but more the opposite. She woke in a daze when he touched her shoulder.

"How is he?" He asked, inclining his head toward Garrick.

"He was awake a little while ago. I just drifted off, I think." She said, dreamily and snuggled back into the soft mattress.

"Wake up, Meg. I have to talk to you about something." Erik said, trying to sound earnest without sounding desperate. "I need you to go to the bank in the morning and get the money to purchase the Chateau de Bagen."

"Oh, yes." She smiled at him and raised her arms over her head, stretching languidly. "We're buying a house." She sighed happily.

"_We're_ not buying a house. _I'm_ buying a house. You're helping me buy a house." He said slowly, trying to imprint his version on her subconscious mind. She didn't hear him. She was already asleep. It was two o'clock in the morning, so who could blame her. Erik shook her again. "You need to go back to your own bed, Meg. This is my bed." He whispered, not wanting to wake Garrick.

"But I'm so tired...I want...to...sleep." Meg said, drifting off again. Erik thought of carrying her up to her own room. It was an unlikely venture. He would wake half the house in the process. The alternative was to lay down beside her and try to get some sleep himself before Garrick woke again. That option wasn't really an option at all. He would get no sleep at all and neither would she.

It was a cruel thing to do, but Erik was running out of ideas of how to wake her. Dipping his fingers in the pitcher of water, he flicked the drops of moisture in her face. She flinched, as he expected, coming fully awake. She glared at him.

"What did you do that for?"

"You wouldn't wake up."

"There are other ways."

"I know. I thought about them all and this one seemed like the safer choice. Can you walk to your room now?"

"Of course. How else would I get there?" She was still put out by the rude awakening.

"I thought about carrying you, but, like I said, the water was safer."

"Hah! You wouldn't do it anyway." She challenged him deliberately.

"You are trying to bait me, but I'm not going to bite that one. Go to bed, Meg. I need you to go the bank this morning and withdraw the money for the chateau." His comfortable use of her shortened name came as a surprise to him. He'd just only recently gotten to know her well enough to realize that it fit her better than her formal name. He thought back on the time that he'd told her that it was a name for a little girl. She was certainly a grown woman and yet the name still applied perfectly. It carried an implied innocence and down-to-earth sensitivity, that was uniquely hers.

She rose and fixed him with a stare that told him she was still unhappy over the way he'd woke her. It was better that she be angry, he decided. It was easier for him to take than her sleepy smiles and contented sighs.

He lay down on his mattress after she left, trying not to think of her. It was impossible. She was everywhere. The cedar chest, the candelabras, the mattress, the smell of lavender... all of it carried a reminder of Meg Giry.

UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

Meg was at a loss to figure out how she was to make a visit to the bank and still put in the expected appearances in her mother's company. They had been invited to tea by one of Aunt Clair's many associates. It was part of Meg's initiation into the Paris elite. It was with regret that she told Erik that it was impossible for her to make the transaction that morning when she delivered his breakfast late.

"Mother and Aunt Clair are expecting me to attend a tea this afternoon. But I promise that I will do it as soon as possible." She said.

"Do not wait too long. It will be sold quickly at that price and I have waited a long time for this house." He said, turning away from her so she did not see his bleak expression. It was a useless attempt. Meg heard the desperation in his voice.

"How is Garrick?" She changed the subject.

"I don't know. He is still breathing and he is weakened by the cramping. I have given him so much laudanum that I fear he will become addicted if I give him anymore. But at least he can rest and it keeps him from feeling too much pain." Erik avoided eye contact with her and she suspected that his patience was wearing thin. It was undoubtedly a new experience for him to tend and care for another so devotedly. She was learning that behind the mask was a sensitive and courageous man.

"I will think of something soon. I will make the transaction late this afternoon, after we return. I just hope it will be soon enough." She promised. He nodded his agreement, still not looking at her.

The tea party was as dry as the biscuits served and Meg fought back repulsion each time her gaze landed on her intended suitor, Horace Claudamere. Meg chastised herself for judging on appearances, but he was just plain ugly. His crooked, yellow teeth were especially bad, and his ruddy complection was oily with great cavernous pores. She tried to pity him, but he leered at her so openly that she shuddered involuntarily.

"Are you planning to continue your career in ballet, Mademoiselle?" Monsieur Claudamere clumsily picked up his tea cup, sloshing some over the edge down onto a white table cloth, and slurped it noisily.

Meg tried not to visibly cringe as she replied, "No."

"Pity." An askew smile smeared across his blotchy face.

"Our Meg will be concentrating on being a lady..." Aunt Clair was interrupted by another crude slurping sound. Even Madame Claudamere, Horace's mother and the Giry's hostsess, looked at him in dismay. It was clear to everyone, but Horace, that he was a gross disappointment. Even Madame Giry didn't speak of him after they left a whole hour before their designated departure time.

It was just half past two when the three women returned home, unwilling to mention Horace Claudamere again. Meg managed to hand the carriage driver a note, unseen by Madame Giry or Aunt Clair, requesting him in just an hour's time at the House of Clureoux. The two older women didn't seem very interested in Meg's plans for the rest of the afternoon and she only hoped their plans didn't include her. When Aunt Clair announced her intention to rest after such a disastrous tea, and Madame Giry agreed that it was a good idea, Meg went to Erik.

He wrote down an account number and a brief note of how much she was to withdraw, along with a note to the banker. He also wrote down the address of the realtor's office and gave her a sealed letter to give to the realtor.

"Thank you, Meg. I am forever in your debt. Hurry now, and be careful." Erik said earnestly, looking into her eyes. Meg nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She had never seen him so vulnerable. The chateau meant so much to him. He'd trusted her with his bank account and his dream. There was only one thing left after that, his heart. She would hold out for the prize.

The carriage arrived exactly on time. She went to the bank and picked up the money with little trouble. The banker looked at the letter Erik had written, then at her with curious interest, but said little above the necessary communication. The transaction at the realtor's office transpired in a similar manner. Meg was feeling triumphant when the carriage stopped at the boarding house. The Chateau de Bagen was Erik's now. She was smiling when she pushed open the door to the House of Clureoux.

"Margaret Adele Giry. Where have you been?" Madame Giry faced her daughter in the foyer, Aunt Clair and Michelle behind her. Meg froze. She quickly tucked the envelope that held the deed to the Chateau de Bagen inside the folds of her cloak. "What have you got there?" Her mother held out her hand to take the envelope.

"It is private, Mother. I know that you will be angry. I don't expect anything else, but I have a right to something of my own." She started to go upstairs to her room. It would have useless to expect that Madame Giry wouldn't follow her.

"I have tried to do what is best for you, Meg." Madame Giry said in a controlled voice, after closing the door to Meg's room. "If you are seeing a man, I have to know about it. Even if you aren't seeing a man, I have to know where you've been for the last two hours."

"No, Mother, you don't." Meg countered in a similar voice. "I am going to be married to some bourgeois pig if you get your way, so I ask that you mind your own affairs this time."

"You have always been a good girl, Meg. I don't doubt your morals, but if you have a lover, it will only complicate things for you. I have never approved of women taking lovers, but if you must, at least be discrete. I realize that all this is very difficult for you, but please do not throw your future away on a moment of passion!"

"Is that what you did, Mother? Did you throw your future away when you married for love?" Meg argued boldly. She had nothing to lose and she was tired of being treated like her desires were of no consequence.

"We are not talking about me, nor will we. My life has not been my own, not since I had you to support and you will not behave this way to me. I will not have it! Now, we will put this ugliness behind us and try to be civil to one another." Madame Giry left, closing the door behind her with a meaningful snap.

Meg did not dare venture down into the basement room with her mother watching her so closely. They did not speak to each other, but the communication wasn't lacking power. Meg knew her mother suspected something and couldn't be too far from the truth. It would be impossible for Meg to get away and give Erik the deed anytime soon.

Dinner dragged and she thought of Garrick and how she was going to get him and Erik something for their evening meal. Michelle seemed like a possible ally. Meg decided to talk to her after dinner. However, Madame Giry, possessing an insight that even Meg had underestimated, kept both girls busy with invitations to Meg's debut that would take place in a week. It was dreary reminder of her uncertain future. No more was said of Meg's mysterious adventure that afternoon and she was beginning to understand a little more about the hypocritical nature of her future marriage.

Her mother strongly suspected that she had a lover, but it had absolutely no bearing on her upcoming introduction into the marriage market. Vaguely, she knew that once she was married, it was expected that she would take a lover. Even her mother had more or less accepted it. It was a disappointing revelation to Meg that her mother would even consider such a degraded compromise for love.

The household retired even later than usual that evening. Meg lay in her bed, staring into the blackness, thinking about Erik. He would be going mad with anticipation and worry. She tried to shut out the images him that presented themselves to her mind. Memories of the way he'd held her and kissed her so tenderly resurfaced each time she tried to bury them under the knowledge that he would be leaving soon. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she balled her fists and pummeled her pillow. It was singularly unsatisfying. The sound of rain against her window only heightened her sense of exhilaration.

She could take the suspense no longer and jumped out of bed and lit a candle. With the deed in gripped tightly in her hand, she left her room. It was all she could do not to run down the stairs to Erik. The stairs seemed to creak louder than ever, but Meg could not force herself to deny her own longing another moment. It had been too long since she'd seen him and he would be expecting her. She hoped that he'd had not panicked and given up on her.

Erik stood in the center on the little room, when she entered and Meg saw the tension drain from him as she waved the envelope containing the deed. She went to him, elated that he was still there. He caught her in an embrace that threatened to crush her and his lips sought hers in a fierce passion that betrayed his own desire.

"I should have known that you had a hand in this, Erik." Madame Giry said from the open doorway. Erik raised his head to meet the gaze of the woman who spoke, but did not release Meg.

"Mother!" Meg gasped.

"Go to your room, Meg. I will take care of things from here." Madame Giry said firmly.

"What are you going to do, Adele? Send for the police?" Erik demanded caustically.

"Not this time, Monsieur. I am just asking you to leave. Meg is not going to be a substitute for Christine. She will be married to a gentleman who can give her what she deserves, a family and a home." Madame Giry spoke coldly and Meg shuddered at her bitter tone. It possessed lifeless quality that Meg had never heard before.

"But Mother, you do not understand. I don't want to be married to the likes of Horace Claudamere or another pig of the same mold. I would have a home with Erik. He's bought a house." Meg flinched as Erik stiffened and released her suddenly, turning away.

"Go with your mother. She is right. I will leave immediately." He said turning back to her and taking the deed from her hand. Meg released it to him, willingly.

"Who is this?" Madame Giry gestured toward Garrick who lay weak and pale on the mattress.

"It is Garrick, a friend of Erik's. He was attacked by a police dog and has been fighting for his life." Meg interjected.

"He is my assistant." Erik corrected her. "He is making an excellent recovery and doesn't require your concern.

"Madame Giry?" Another voice from the doorway demanded their attention. It was Michelle. "I think the baby is coming...now!"

"Come with me, Meg." Madame Giry's tone gave no more room for argument and Meg obeyed. The three women left without another moment's hesitation.

Meg was not allowed in the room where Michelle was giving birth. The midwife arrived sometime after Michelle's announcement and went immediately to Michelle's room. Madame Giry remained with Michelle through the entire ordeal, while Meg paced out in the hallway. She didn't dare to see Erik again, though she thought of him as often as she thought of Michelle. She may never see him again, but at least he had the deed to the Chateau de Bagen. He would have his home and she knew where to find him. The thought warmed her a little.

Uncle Alec and Aunt Clair sat in the parlor with the retired doctor, who shared stories of tragic and difficult births. Meg could hear their conversation, even though she wasn't even in the room with them. She wished that he would choke and die before he said another word. Meg didn't need to hear his repertoire of experience if he was a part of so many disastrous results. She was grateful that it was a midwife that attended to Michelle instead of the doctor who so eloquently betrayed his incompetence.

She was sitting in the hallway, on the floor with her knees drawn up and her head resting on them when she heard Michelle cry out with pain. Meg cried for her. Michelle was so young and brave. She'd been through so much. Meg sent up a silent prayer on the younger girl's behalf. Please, God, let her live and let the baby live, she mentally rehearsed. She was still praying when she heard the tiny voice of Michelle's baby. It was muffled and weak at first, but continued to get louder and stronger with each breath. Meg sent her heart felt gratitude to the deity she'd been praying to.

Madame Giry emerged from Michelle's room with the swaddled infant. She placed the baby in Meg's arms. Meg looked into her mother's eyes and saw tears of joy. It came as a bit of a surprise that Madame Giry didn't even closely resemble the woman who had confronted her and Erik just hours earlier. There was a softness that Meg remembered from when she was a little girl. There was none of the prejudice that Meg might have expected for the bastard offspring of the murdered stagehand. A deeper understanding of her mother filled Meg with such profound love and respect that she felt humbled and ashamed for her mistreatment of her earlier. The woman was far more complex and inherently decent than Meg had previously suspected.

"It's a girl." Madame Giry spoke, her voice choked with pride and emotion. "Take her down to meet the others, but don't let them touch her. She is still so tiny. We don't want her to catch anything from them. Michelle will want to see you, so don't be too long." Meg nodded and did as she was told.

Aunt Clair cried softly when she saw the tiny girl. Uncle Alec and the doctor grunted, in monosyllables, their approval. Meg went to Michelle's room and saw the younger girl surprisingly alert though a little pale. Meg wasn't sure what she expected, but seeing Michelle in high spirits wasn't even close to what Meg had in mind. Meg was sent out of room, by the midwife saying that it was time for the baby to be fed.

The sun was making its appearance now and the house was alive with excitement as the news of the newest member of the household was announced. Jacques was delighted at the word that he was to make a special celebration in honor of the birth. Aunt Clair was acting like the doting aunt, that she was. Meg stole down into the basement room when everyone was engaged in the morning breakfast.

Erik was gone, as was Garrick and some of the comforts she had bestowed on them. She noticed that the book was missing and smiled. A scrap of paper with a note written on it lay on the cedar chest with a pile of paper bills. The note was a brief expression of gratitude and explained that the money was for the baby.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Meg observed her reflection in the mirror with a mixed review. The dress was simply stunning, but the person wearing looked resigned to an uncertain fate. Her hair was piled high with curls. A few slender ringlets were strategically freed about her face for the maximum effect. The dress of shimmering gold silk was full and long with a sheer overskirt embroidered with pink satin roses. The bodice had the same delicate pattern embroidered on the center panel that tapered to a vee below the waistline. White, gathered sheer straps draped lightly off her shoulders and accentuated the delicate sweetheart neckline. Meg had never been one to flaunt herself and the whole idea of being paraded for inspection was crude and left a bad taste in her mouth. Having been on stage, in some capacity or another most of her life, hadn't prepared her for the performance she faced now. She was a fraud from beginning to end.

"It is time, Meg." Madame Giry said from the doorway of Meg's bedroom. Meg followed her mother with the same enthusiasm as those who faced the guillotine so many years earlier. Numbly, she pulled herself into the carriage with her mother that would take her to the ball. She tried not to think. She'd already thought of every possible trick to get out of going, but the only respectable solution was to go. Aunt Clair and Uncle Alec had loaned them the money for the party and agreed to host it as well. They had rented a well-respected hall for the occasion. Every eligible bachelor with a reasonable bank account had been invited. Other young women were invited as well. They had been carefully selected as to not give the guest of honor, Meg Giry, any undue competition. Some were already married. Others were older than Meg and had been on the marriage market for many years without success. Meg knew this from the discussions she'd heard between Aunt Clair and her mother. It seemed that her mother and aunt really didn't have any confidence that she could hold her own with the prettier, unmarried girls.

Meg found herself positioned near the door, of the elegant hall, so that she could greet everyone as they entered. She did her best to smile and be pleasant, but in time it became an objectionable chore. Her feet were sore from standing in the ill-fitting shoes even before the dancing began. Her new, stiff shoes pinched her toes and each step brought intolerable pain.

She begged off on one dance, because her feet couldn't take any more and found a settee in a secluded corner. She removed her shoe with a sigh of relief and flexed her aching foot.

"Meg, I am so glad that you are alone. I've been wanting to talk to you." Meg looked up to see Lily Fairmont, Reggie's sister. The expression on Lily's face was one of concern and Meg had a feeling that she was not very happy at the moment.

"Of course, Lily. It is good to see you again. Sit down." Meg said, moving to make room for the other woman on the settee.

"I realize that I am over-stepping my bounds here, but I have to ask you...why. Why are you doing this?" She gestured toward the party. "I thought that you and Reggie..." She broke off and looked into Meg's eyes searching for clues "I mean I could be wrong. Reggie could be wrong, but he thinks that you love him. The letters that you have written have meant a great deal to him. Perhaps he is mistaken and has read too much between the lines."

"Oh, Lily, I am so sorry that you had to see all this and I am sorry for Reggie, but mother has decided that I have to marry and Reggie is in Cambodia. We owe money and I cannot wait for as long as it takes for him to come back." Meg plead silently for Lily's understanding. Even though she hardly knew the other woman, she sensed a good, kind heart.

"You couldn't wait six months?" Lily asked, surprised. "It seems like a relatively short time to wait for a good man." She added, in defense of her brother.

"What do you know of my letters?" Meg asked, uncertain of Lily's knowledge. Meg didn't know what was in Reggie's letters and this was proving to be quite embarrassing.

"Reggie writes to me as well. He is falling in love with you. I'm surprised that you didn't realize it. He is quite expressive in his letters to me." Lily sounded rather put out and Meg couldn't blame her.

"I have to confess something, Lily, and I won't blame you if you are angry. You have every right to be. But I haven't been writing the letters." Meg paused for the full effect of her words to settle on the other woman's mind. "I don't quite know how to explain it, but I'll try." Meg continued. "I was in love with another before I ever met Reggie." Lily looked stunned, as Meg expected.

"How could you lead him on like this?" Lily accused.

"Let me finish." Meg breathed deep and went on. "The one I cared about is... How can I put this delicately? He is disfigured. He doesn't return my affections. Mother has been pushing me into getting married and when Reggie acted interested in me, Mother rather insisted that I go out with him. I do love him, just as you do, like a sister." Lily turned her head momentarily, as if she was disgusted and did not want to hear it.

"But you said that you did not write the letters. Who wrote them? I don't suppose that he dreamed them up."

"He didn't. This is the part that is really difficult for me. I am ashamed of what I did and I can see now that I was very wrong and I ask that you forgive me, because it gets worse." Meg took another deep breath. "Do you remember Michelle Montague?" Meg paused to let Lily reflect.

"Yes, I think so. She was a year younger than me, but we were in school together. I remember her. She had the most startling green eyes."

"That's her. I'm glad you remember. She came to the Opera Populaire about a year ago. I didn't know her very well at the time, so I can't even tell you all that happened, but she was assaulted and a very horrible man forced himself upon her."

Lily gasped, blinking at the horror that presented itself to her imagination. "Oh dear, that is awful. I am so sorry to hear of it. How is she now?"

"Well, that is the part that I'm getting to. She has been writing the letters. I asked her to, because I felt so guilty about not loving Reggie that way the he deserved. Michelle has a gift for writing and I told her to do it. I did not read the letters, but I did tell her to gently tell him that my feelings were of a friendly nature and not romantic. I don't think she told him. She has a tiny baby girl now." Meg smiled, remembering the baby. "Michelle named her Bethaleigh. She is quite the little beauty."

"The baby is from the unfortunate circumstances?" Lily asked. Meg nodded. "Where is the sorry excuse for humanity?"

"Dead."

"I can't say I'm sorry to hear it." Lily paused. "Reggie thinks he's in love with you, but really he is in love with Michelle, and knows nothing about the baby." She concluded.

"That pretty much sums it up... Ironic, isn't it?"

"Where is Michelle now?"

"She is living with us, at the House of Clureoux."

"That is extremely generous of you to provide for her support, when you do not have so much for yourselves."

"She has a benefactor, who pays for her board and room and has been generous to provide a trust fund for the baby." Meg admitted.

"She is taken care of then. Who is this person? I must write to him and express myself." Lily said.

"He does not wish to be thanked. I think it would embarrass him if his identity were revealed." Meg said, regretting her mention of Erik.

"It would?" Lily said with genuine surprise. "I think that I've fallen in love with the Stranger already." Lily placed her hand upon her chest and exhaled.

"You're a married woman!" Meg mocked, trying to hide a smile.

"And happily so. Perhaps it is too forward of me to ask, but...is Michelle's benefactor the one whom you love?" Lily asked, her eyes sparkling with interest. Meg blushed.

"I...can't... I... How did you know?"

"Women know these things. I don't think I shall tell Reggie that Michelle is writing the letters and I don't think you should either, for now. It is good for both of them, and I shall enjoy the mischief and intrigue, myself. How often does one get to see her brother make such a delightful fool of himself?" Lily smiled. "I shall love to have Michelle for a sister one day. I just hope Reggie won't be an idiot and ruin the whole thing with an unforgivable blunder."

"I think they are going to need our help. Michelle is terrified of men since her experience and I don't think it will be easy for her even if she has feelings for him." Meg said.

"What about you? How are you to going to win the heart of this mysterious stranger?" Lily pressed.

"He has had every opportunity to make his feelings known. I have embarrassed myself with my own declarations to the point that I would be a fool to continue." Meg confessed.

"You are going about it the wrong way, darling." Lily murmured conspiratorially. "If your beloved is neither blind or stupid, and everything else about him is healthy and normal, then it shouldn't be impossible for you to convince him."

"That's the problem. I don't want to convince him any more. If he cannot convince himself, then I am wasting my time. He does not care. I know it." Meg said looking away so Lily wouldn't see the tears filling her eyes.

"No. You mustn't give up. Love will win. You'll see."

"No. You don't understand. He still has feelings for another who betrayed him. I don't know if he'll ever be free of her and the hurt she caused him." Meg blinked and a tear rolled down her cheek.

"Oh dear, that does make things difficult." Lily agreed. Meg nodded and wiped the tear away, forcing a smile so that she did not succumb to a crying fit.

A gentleman claimed his dance with Meg before Lily could continue. Meg did not see her again that evening and went home thinking about the conversation with the young woman. She was relived that Lily was not angry with her and puzzled to find out that Michelle had not told her that Reggie would be returning in six months. It was possible that Reggie failed to mention it, but that didn't seem likely if he was falling in love and awaiting a reunion.

Several days later, Meg cradled little Bethaleigh in her arms while Michelle tidied up after giving the baby her morning bath. A letter from Reggie had appeared in the morning mail. Meg did not touch it, but waited, interested to see if Michelle would mention it. She never did.

"Did Reggie say when he would be coming back?" Meg blew warm breath gently on Bethaleigh's tiny, bare foot and watched the baby smile each time she did it.

"Why?" Michelle stiffened just a little, before continuing with her task.

"I was just wondering about him is all. I hope he is well and safe." Meg said. Michelle agreed, and Meg didn't pursue the subject any further.

Aunt Clair had managed to finagle an invitation for Meg to every party and ball taking place within the next two months. Meg went and did her best to appear pleasant and demur while, inside, her heart wept bitterly. Meg had received three marriage proposals, but for one reason or another her mother instructed her to turn them down, citing the most obvious reason. One did not have a big enough bank account. A young handsome suitor had a dreadful reputation with the ladies, while another gambled terribly. Meg was not saddened that she had to refuse them, but she overheard Aunt Clair telling Madame Giry, in the parlor one evening, that she should reconsider at least one of them.

"Tristram Beaudette is very handsome and has plenty of money. He is quite a catch. Meg should be flattered that he proposed already." Aunt Clair said.

"I know, but you are forgetting his scandalous reputation." Madame Giry argued.

"He is young. Perhaps he will want to settle down with our Meg. They would surely make a handsome couple and their children would be absolutely gorgeous." Meg could not clearly hear her mother's muffled reply, but it was not in favor of the young rogue.

"You will be unusually fortunate to find a man, in this day and age, of your impossibly high standards, Adele. They just don't make them like they used to." Meg sensed that Aunt Clair was growing impatient with Madame Giry's stubbornness.

It was a hot July afternoon and not even a merciful breeze stirred the air in Paris. The stench of the sewers was overwhelming, putting everyone at the House of Clureoux in foul temperament. Even Michelle and little Bethaleigh were being testy with each other.

"She cries every time I put her down and I can't get another thing done." Michelle complained. "Clair isn't used to having a crying baby in the house and I know that it wears on her that Bethaleigh cries so."

"It is the heat." Meg suggested. "She is bored and fretful like the rest of us. I'll take her for a while, so you can have some time to yourself."

"Thank you, Meg. I would like that." Michelle said, placing the baby gently in Meg's arms. Meg enjoyed tending the tiny girl. When the baby finally fell asleep, Meg took her to Michelle's room to lay her down. The door was slightly ajar so Meg pushed it open quietly, trying not to wake the baby. It creaked anyway. Michelle was writing at her desk and jumped guiltily when Meg entered.

"Oh! You startled me!" Michelle said, hastily putting her writing away. Meg smiled to herself. She was convinced now that Michelle was falling in love with Reggie. She hadn't shared a single one of Reggie's letter in the last two months although they arrived regularly. Meg wondered briefly about what Michelle wrote in her letters and hoped that Reggie wouldn't be a complete jackass when he found out that he had been deceived.

Meg had been invited to another society ball. This one was hosted by Lily Fairmont and, for once, Meg was excited about going. She anticipated seeing Lily again. Madame Giry accompanied her daughter to the event with renewed hope that they would find the perfect husband. Lily met them graciously and instantly steered the older woman toward an elegant gentleman Meg had never met before. Lily introduced him as Monsieur Dublan, her father. With Madame Giry being entertained, the two young women escaped to the garden. It was the same garden where Meg first kissed Erik. The memory came back vividly, though she quickly repressed it.

"I have a plan." Lily confided. "I think we can capture the attention of your mysterious lover."

"He is gone and is not interested in me." Meg said dully.

"Where is he?"

"He has a house in the Midi-Pyrenees region."

"That is a bit far. How remote is it?"

"I don't know. It's the Chateau de Bagen, but I've never been there. "

"We have to believe that if it is meant to happen, love will find a way."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Erik swung at the blackberry bramble with an ax, severing the canes and tearing the overgrowth from the hedge. He'd been working on the hedge for days now, in a effort to restore some order to the grounds of the chateau. The orchard promised to yield apples, pears and peaches in another few months time. Grapes hung heavily on mature vines, ripening slowly in the small vineyard. Erik watched their progress with eager anticipation of the wine they would produce. He'd cleared an area earlier and planted some garden vegetables. He had yet to harvest anything, but he found his role as a farmer quite rewarding already. Young carrots, peas, onions, potatoes, turnips and cabbages grew in straight, obedient rows. The garden had started out as a curiosity. He'd never had the ambition to farm before now, but neither had it been an option. He planted it because he could.

The chateau was a slate grey structure with three full stories, a partial loft and a basement. Small, circular towers with spiral roofs were situated on two corners on the front of the house .

At the back of the house, there was a modest chapel where two larger circular towers rose to the full height of three levels. The chapel would seat no more than twenty people and would not have been built for the use of the general congregation. It was meant to facilitate the needs of the family that lived there.

It had taken him the better part of two months to put the house itself into shape. Cracked plaster and split wood on the finish areas around doorways, windows and decorative moldings. It was with some delight that he'd found that most of the original furniture remained in the house. Erik added the modern bathroom with the new flushing toilet, hot and cold running water and the gas fired boiler that heated the water. The chateau boasted nine bedrooms, three reception rooms, a large kitchen and dining room, and of course, a music room where William Vincent Wallace's pianoforte still resided. He also found the late composer's old violin.

In the evenings, Erik found soul-healing recourse in his music. The old pianoforte produced a deep, rich timbre that filled the old house with lush vibrations.

Garrick had healed slowly. He was still thin and malnourished from his illness but continued to make steady progress. Several times after they had left Paris, Erik wondered if the boy would survive. It was one of the things that inspired him to plant the vegetable garden.

"Monsieur!" The voice startled Erik. Erik turned to see who addressed him, for there was none other around. In the drive that lead up to the house, a man sat on a large wagon pulled by the biggest horse Erik had ever seen. The man made no attempt to get down from his perch, high on the wagon. Since he hadn't heard the wagon coming, he wasn't sure how long the man had been there.

The instinct to turn away and disappear was overpowered by his natural curiosity. Erik kept his face adverted and greeted the man with the customary '_bon jour_'. It turned out to be the local woodcutter. He inquired whether Erik was interested in firewood for the winter. Erik answered in the affirmative and the man left without further discussion. It seemed a little early to be concerned with firewood for the winter. After Erik thought about it, he remembered the pile of wood at the back of the house was dwindling. Perhaps it was the local custom to cut the wood in July so it would be dry enough to burn by the time the bitter cold set in. He was gradually learning about the simple traditions of the country folk.

Within days of his arrival, a small tin of fresh milk appeared on his door step. Erik suspected a local dairy farmer was responsible and put the emptied tin back where he found it. At the end of the week, a bill for the delivery appeared. Erik left the money beneath the empty tin and every day since, the milk was there. Not once had he seen the person who delivered it. It was the perfect arrangement.

Garrick had taken over the chore of cooking their meals. As much as Erik appreciated the gesture and didn't want to offend the boy, he was tired of boiled sausage and lentils. He missed Francois' cooking.

Erik spent the afternoons tutoring Garrick in basic academia. The afternoons were too hot to work outdoors and Erik was unused to the bright sunlight. He'd darkened the most of the windows in the house with heavy draperies because he felt vulnerable and exposed. Although he hadn't really seen anyone, he had the feeling that he was being watched. Somebody knew enough to have milk delivered. A knoll, densely populated with evergreens, shielded the Chateau from the main road. Erik thought he'd seen someone there. The sunlight caught the reflection of polished metal and winked at him.

The chateau was about as removed from the village as it needed to be. He started to wonder at how he'd come to see it as a nine-year-old boy. There was nothing there except the chateau and it wasn't visible from the main highway. He remembered horses grazing in the meadow. There was a barn with six stables and a carriage house.

The only horse there now was the old gelding that he'd bought with the carriage in Paris the day he and Garrick left. If he hadn't been in such a hurry that day, he would have tried to get a better horse. The journey had taken much longer than Erik first calculated. The distance was far and the horse was old.

A week after the woodcutter had showed up, Erik had a visitor. Garrick greeted the person who knocked on his door. Erik remained close, but hidden, so he could hear the exchange between Garrick and the newcomer. The individual demanded to see the master of the house. Garrick told them that his master did not entertain visitors, but that he, Garrick, would willingly deliver a message.

"I must know first that your master is person I seek." The visitor argued.

"I am sorry, M'sir, but I cannot disobey my master's wishes. Perhaps you should tell me who it is that wishes to see him and he will decide if he will see you at another time." Garrick said knowing that Erik was listening to the exchange.

"I am representing Madame de Leon and I wish to know if your master is the man known as Erik and wears a mask." The man stated boldly. "Perhaps that is why he will not accept visitors."

"M'sir will not see anyone, because he does not wish to." Garrick did not betray his master with even a stutter or an ill-timed hesitation, and closed the door in the man's face.

Erik was proud of him.

The unexpected visitor had put Erik on edge. The idea of abandoning the place after he'd put so much work into it just did not appeal to him. He'd grown too attached to the chateau already to just leave. Nevertheless, he mentally began preparing himself for the possibility that he may be forced to flee. There could no coincidence that the visitor knew of his name and disfigurement.

The next day, a letter appeared in the mailbox, positioned out on the main road. It was a rather brief message, from Marchioness de Leon, stating that if Erik was indeed the man she was seeking, a title and fortune would be his. The handwriting was thin and scrawling, like the person who wielded the pen was arthritic. But, it sounded like a trap and only a fool would fall into that one. He laughed that anyone would think he was so simple as to take the bait. He had enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life and no use for a title. He ignored the letter, but found himself retreating back to his old habits of staying indoors during the day.

Four days later, another letter arrived in the same handwriting. It read that the Marchioness de Leon, herself, would be arriving at one o'clock in the afternoon on the following day. She would accompanied by her lawyer, and if Erik did not see her, he would be turning his back on a vast fortune and title that was his by right of inheritance. She was his grandmother and, although she had seen him only once when he was nine, she would recognize him at once on sight.

The letter had the same impact as a weight of a hundred pounds being hurtled at his head. A dizzy sensation came over him and he was forced to sit down to avoid being nauseated. At nine-years-old, his mother had brought him to the region to see his grandparents. In his wildest dreams, he'd never thought that either of them would still be alive. But, that wasn't the whole of his shock. He'd thought that she'd brought him here to see _her_ parents. A title couldn't be passed on through the issue of a woman. The title would have to be inherited through a father. He knew absolutely nothing about his father.

He racked his brain trying to remember that visit so many years ago and the woman who claimed to be his grandmother. An image of a stern disapproving figure came to mind, but he had no recollection of who the person was. No one else would have known of his one and only visit to the area so long ago or of how old he would have been. Now that his curiosity was substantially roused, he looked forward to the meeting, but not without some apprehension.

The woman arrived just as she stated in her letter. The two gray horses that pulled the black coach were high-spirited and regally decked out in headdress and harness. The coachman and footman wore powdered wigs and formal satin breeches and coats in light blue . Erik watched from an upper window, as she emerged from the roomy carriage. The ageing gentleman with her was probably the lawyer. She was tiny and withered, nothing like the rigid figure he pictured. She carried herself to the stairway and up the steps to his front door, using a cane for support.

Erik waited, looking for the possible trap that would follow. Garrick had been instructed to not leave the visitors alone. Erik would come into the reception room when he was ready. Satisfied that no one else had followed her, Erik went down to meet his grandmother.

He listened by the door for just a moment before entering just in case there was something that he should know. Garrick would warn him in some way if there was danger. Erik walked in, dressed in his finest suit and stood silent, facing his grandmother. He wore the black wig and the white mask for the full effect, as to not spare his dear _grandmére _entirely, the reality of his disfigurement. The flesh colored mask that he usually wore was less shocking.

The lawyer was sitting on a straight backed chair looking uncomfortable. His grandmother sat on the wine-colored, plush settee—one of the finer pieces in the house. Her frame was a diminished version of a former and greater stature. There was little evidence that she had ever been beautiful or even pretty. Her skin was thin, though not extremely wrinkled. The mouth was thin and lipless, and her eyes peered at him sharply from beneath drooping lids. She spoke first.

"I thought you might be dead by now." She said, her voice cracking harshly.

"Likewise, Madame." Erik responded.

She laughed, the sound resembling a bark. "I am as surprised as you. I have been looking forward to my permanent departure for several years now, but for some reason, God doesn't want me yet. Your father died before you were born. Your grandfather died only last year. When your mother brought you to see us you were nine. I was not kind as you may remember."

"I don't."

"Well, it is just as good that you do not. I was frightened of you and I never wanted to see you again. I kept thinking of your father and I didn't want to believe that you were his son. It is a terrible thing to face when your only grandchild is deformed and your only son is dead. I confess that I was concerned about what other people would say and think. They are dead now and their opinions never amounted to much anyway." She stopped and took a deep breath, her lungs wheezing.

"Perhaps Madame would like something to drink." Erik said, rising to pour her a drink.

"Water and brandy." She said, tapping her fingers sharply on her chest. She coughed and accepted the drink.

"I heard from the servants' gossip that the new owner of the Chateau de Bagen wore a mask that covered the right side of his face. I thought it odd that someone of that description would buy the house your mother grew up in." She did not seem to notice Erik's surprise, and he remain silent. "She must have brought you here at the same time she visited us. By that time, her parents had both died from consumption and the house belonged to someone else." She took another swallow of the diluted brandy and continued. "Your grandfather was a marquis and as his rightful heir, you are now the Marquis de Leon."

"Titles are a thing of the past. They no longer have any merit with the courts and there are no advantages to having one." Erik said, watching her carefully.

"There has always been the entitled and untitled. Napoleon the III respected our titles. It is a shame that our present government has no respect for our history and the nobility. All great civilizations have had their nobles. I have come here today, because our titles are important to French history and culture. If you do not accept it, the lands and the property will be received by the godless government that has turned away from our traditions." Her voice had taken on a lowered pitch and the passion she felt on the subject came through loud and clear.

"So what does this title involve?"

"There is property of great value; houses, farms and business, horses and cattle and more money than you have ever dreamed of."

"How do you know what I've dreamed of?"

"I know more than you think. I knew of your time in Persia and India. You are the one known as the Phantom of the Opera. I heard the gossip about the soprano and the disaster involving the chandelier. I have always been a patron of the Opera Populaire, though I attended more so in my younger days. Our family was quite generous to the theater, in part, because I believed that it was you who blackmailed them for twenty thousand francs a month and because I love the theater. The Opera Populaire would have been bankrupt a lot sooner if I had not covered for you. For all those years, I worried you would disgrace our family. I hadn't heard any more gossip about the Phantom after the fire. I thought you might have been killed."

"You were in Paris?" Erik asked. He was still taking it all in.

"Oh, yes. We used to host lavish parties and knew everybody that was anybody. We still have a house in Paris. I haven't been there for years. I hate the stench. The summer is always best here in the country."

"If you knew this all those years ago, why do you seek me out now? What do you want from me?"

"I was frightened. I thought you might be mad." She said simply, then added. "I want Heirs."

"You are wasting your time. I will not reproduce and I am mad."

"I thought that you might say that. Your deformity is not hereditary. At the time your father died, I believe that your mother tried to abort you." She said dispassionately. "There was a doctor of an evil nature that was promoting a drug he claimed would abort an unwanted child." She didn't look at him as she spoke this information. Instead, she stared at the floor and held herself as though she was affected sorely by the disclosure. "Many babies were born without limbs or without brains. The doctor was arrested, but not before much damage had already been done."

"I am still mad."

"I have had spies watching you for the last few weeks. You are not mad. I have known people who are mad and they don't restore old houses and grow vegetables. Now that I've seen you, I am not frightened. Some women may even find the mask an exciting diversion. If Biagio Delvoix can find a woman to marry him, surely you can."

"Biagio Delvoix? Should I know him?" Erik inquired only to keep the old woman talking. It was a lot to digest, but the woman held many of the missing pieces of his life.

"He is one of the richest men in all of France. He married an heiress, but his wife died last year in childbirth. I hear the poor woman delivered three babies is as many years and the last one killed her. The man is a merchant and has more money than he knows what to do with. He gambles terribly. I feel sorry for the girl that is engaged to him. I hear she is a pretty thing, a ballerina. There is no doubt that she is marrying him for his money. There can be no other reason."

The room seemed to be spinning around and around. Erik steadied himself, fighting for control.

"Who is she?"

"The girl? I don't know her personally. Madame de Mol and her daughter said they saw her at the Fairmonts' a few weeks ago. I don't remember the name. I saw the announcement of the engagement in the _Epoque_, but I'm sure I didn't keep the paper."


	15. Chapter Fifteen

"What do the duties of the title involve?" Erik asked. He needed to change the subject.

"Mostly managing the accounts. Monsieur Fulmeroix is here to witness your acceptance of the title. He will file it with the courts. I live at the Chateau de Leon. It is only ten miles from here. It is a grand old place, build four hundred years ago. I shall not be spending another winter here. The cold is too much for my old bones." The old woman coughed harshly. The lawyer cleared his throat. It was the first sound he'd made throughout the entire discussion.

"Eustacia, there is the matter a positive identity." Monsieur Fulmeroix said, addressing his grandmother meekly. So his grandmother had a name, Eustacia. It fit her, somehow.

"Oh, yes. There is one more thing. Because I have not seen you in over twenty-five years, I must see you without the mask. It is the only way to make a positive identification."

"No. You can keep the title and the money." Erik said flatly and rose, signaling the end of their meeting.

"You are being overly sensitive about this, Erik. I buried four infants before one of my offspring survived and he died after fathering one child. You are all the family I have left in the world."

"I am sorry for you, but that doesn't change anything." Erik said crisply. He started for the door but questions had been forming in his mind over so many of the things she'd said. He stopped. "Just one question, Madame. What did you mean that you worried I would disgrace the family?"

"I thought you were insane. Insanity is often hereditary and I believed that you may have inherited madness and it would reflect on our family. I cared too much what others thought. Gossip is a vicious thing. There was hardly a soul in my close circle that didn't know you existed. They are all dead now. Your mother tried to protect you, but a disfigurement such as yours was hard to hide indefinitely.

"There is a price on my head. Did you know that?" Erik challenged her. She seemed to know far more than she should already.

"Yes. One of the perks of the nobility is that these things can be dealt with discreetly and finally. Money talks. There is no absolute proof that you did anything. Experts have examined the cable, holding the chandelier, and all agree that it was old and of inadequate strength. The war has at least distracted the public attention from your escapades. Another thing in your favor is that people are only willing to attack those who are weaker than themselves. In a mob, everyone has courage and their position is validated by the numbers that join in. Alone, most of them are cowards. There will be no one who will have the courage or the position to challenge the Marquis de Leon. Surround yourself with the right people and you will never need to show your face."

"What's in it for me? I have enough money to live comfortably on my own, and I don't care about the title. I see it as an unwanted responsibility."

"I hoped that it wouldn't come to this, but I have some leverage here, too. The police won't come after you unless someone gives them a reason. I'm not above blackmail either." She stated boldly, and Erik knew she wouldn't hesitate to do as she promised.

"You surprise me, _Grandmére_. I would think that the shame of seeing your grandson's name in the arrests column of the _Epoque_ would be too great."

"I will be dead soon, anyway. You will be rotting in prison for years."

Erik laughed. "So what do I have to do to keep you off my back?"

"Children. I want great-grandchildren. The day I hear that a good woman is caring your child, I can die happy."

"Let's not waste any more time!" Erik pronounced drily.

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"There is no need for you to move out of this house. We are welcome here as long as necessary. Meg, I know you are doing this to spite me." Madame Giry confronted Meg in her daughter's bedroom. "Biagio Delvoix is not husband material. I can't believe that you are going to go through with this marriage."

"He has money, Mother. Lots of it." Meg replied calmly. She folded up a nightgown and placed it in the large trunk that was rapidly filling up with her worldly possessions.

"There are more important things in this would than money. I will not have it. This is ridiculous." Madame Giry's voice rose in panic.

"I am the one getting married, Mother, not you. So, if you wish to choose a husband, you should choose one for yourself. I will be staying with Lily until the wedding. Oh ,yes, I almost forgot to tell you. The engagement party is to be held at the Fairmonts'. Lily and I have it all planned. Of course, the cost will be great, but Lily has agreed to loan me the money. I shall have to pay her back after the wedding."

"There will be no wedding! And, that is final!"

"I'm of age, Mother. You cannot stop it." Meg said smoothly. "The engagement party will be a masque. I think it will all be very exciting." Meg smiled, unperturbed.

"This is all too much for me to deal with right now. You don't know anything about this man. What kind of life will you have with him?" Madame Giry demanded.

"What difference does it make? I'm not marrying him for the life I will have. I'm marrying him for his money. I thought we both understood that."

"You don't seem to understand that a marriage contract is final."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mother. Divorce has been legal for many years. But don't worry. I shan't divorce him."

"What is it that you want from me, Meg. When I suggested that you get married, I had in mind a good man who would treat you well and be a good provider. Now tell me what is so wrong with that?" Madame Giry stared at her daughter; tears moistened her eyes.

"Nothing at all. I will do my duty and marry. I'm sorry that you don't approve of Monsieur Delvoix. He is a bit crude and unrefined, but I will try to adjust." Meg said, closing the locks on the trunk. "There now, I am packed and ready to go. The carriage will be along shortly. Goodbye, Mother. I will see you at the engagement party, and in the meantime, try and have a little faith in me."

Meg left the House of Clureoux for the last time. He mother wept bitter tears and Aunt Clair did her best to comfort the woman. Lily had sent a carriage for Meg and a footman, who helped load her trunk on the back of the carriage. The carriage pulled away from boarding house and Meg succumbed to the tears and sorrow she had been hiding for the last week. There was no one in the carriage with her, as the footman rode with the driver. By the time she reached the Fairmonts' estate, she was cried out.

Lily met her eagerly and hugged her tightly. "Oh, Meg, don't be sad. It will work out. I promise."

"What if it doesn't?" Meg looked at her friend with red, puffy eyes.

"I know it sounds risky, but it isn't. I have it all worked out. Come now, and have some tea. We will talk. I have an idea for your dress. Purple, I think." Lily said delighted with the prospect. "We will have to put the announcement in all the papers immediately. This will be one of the most published engagement parties ever. I am having more fun planning your engagement than I had with my own. I was terrified. It is so much more fun wreaking havoc in the lives of others." She giggled impishly. "With Stuart and Reggie so far away, I am in dire need of some amusement."

It was late in the afternoon when Meg unpacked her things in Lily's lovely guest room. The decor was white and cream colors accented with the occasional wine colored accents such as the velvet pillows, the rug in front of the open fire place and the vase of fresh roses. The furniture, also, was of richly hued cherry wood. The room was large and airy, with two big open windows and a set of glass double doors that opened out on to a spacious balcony. Meg could see the place in the garden where she and Erik had kissed, when she stood next to the balcony's rail of carved, white stone.

It was odd that she would find herself at the Fairmonts' grand estate again and under such bizarre circumstances. In her wildest dreams, she never thought that she would be an honored guest here. Lily was such charming company. Michelle had mentioned that Lily was quite the young adventurer. Meg could believe it now. Nothing daunted her. Meg wished she had the same confidence. Lily really believed that Erik would come forth and declare himself rather than see her married to the infamous Biagio Delvoix. Lily would insist all the newspapers publish the engagement party a full two weeks before the actual event in order to give Erik plenty of time to think about it. That was her plan. Meg was feeling more apprehensive than ever.

Meg finished unpacking and dressed for dinner. Lily met her in the dinning room, full of ideas for the party.

"I think we should invite the de Chagnys. They are in London and I don't know if they will want to travel, but it would be an unforgivable oversight not to send them an invitation." Lily said, sitting down at the head of the table. The table was set for two. Meg wondered about the rest of the house hold. It seemed like an extravagance to light up the whole house for just two people. Lily didn't seem to think anything of her plush surroundings. Meg didn't want to betray her own poor ways, so she withheld comment.

"Why invite them to a farce? Isn't it enough that we have involved so many people already in this doomed engagement?" Meg asked shyly. She didn't want to offend Lily, who had been so generous already.

"Oh, Meg, you need to relax and enjoy the adventure. Life is too short and precious to take everything so seriously."

"I wish I had your free spirit."

"It is yours for the asking. I give you permission to free your own spirit and let your imagination soar. Let go, Meg." Lily coaxed.

"What if Erik doesn't come? I will still be engaged to Monsieur Delvoix. It is hardly fair to him to use him this way. I don't even like him, but he has done nothing to me to deserve this kind of treatment."

"Don't give him another thought. Perhaps he hasn't done anything to you to cause you pain and embarrassment, but he deserves this. He has spoiled the reputations of enough other women that his punishment is well earned."

"But I still don't see how I'm going to get out of the engagement if Erik doesn't make his intentions known." Meg said nervously.

"That is the easy part. Monsieur Delvoix is very predictable. He will not be able to resist the attentions of the ladies. All we have to do is have you or someone else, me perhaps, discover him and the lady in a compromising situation. It will be all you need to break the engagement and return to the arms of your mother who will be overjoyed that you came to your senses." Lily declared easily, and rang for the servants to bring in the first course.

"And after that, I will get a job with the ballet and earn the money to pay our family's debts." Meg said, breathing a sigh of relief.

"No. Erik will come, Meg. Believe in yourself and believe in him."

"I hope so. You have gone to so much trouble to help. It would be a shame if it were all for nothing."

"Don't even say it. It is not all for nothing. I would have been simply bored out of my mind if I hadn't cooked up this little charade. I am having the time of my life! Stuart wouldn't want me to get too bored while he is away. I assure you, this is the least of the pranks I've gotten myself into." Lily rolled her eyes at possibilities.

"Michelle told me about the time you were being punished and your mother took your shoes away so you wouldn't try to escape. It seems that you stole a horse and rode bareback and barefoot to school." Meg laughed at the mental image.

"Did she tell you about the time one of our classmate, Susannah, was being punished for something silly and she was excluded from her own birthday party. I couldn't let such an injustice take place. So, some friends and I smuggled an entire party through her bedroom window." Lily laughed heartily at the memory.

"Did you get away with it?"

"Well, we would have if Mary Beth hadn't smuggled a bottle of gin along with the birthday cake, gotten drunk and decided to sing a toast to the birthday girl. We tried to quiet her down, but she just wouldn't cooperate. Then we tried to beat a hasty retreat, but only one could climb down the trellis at a time. I was the last one there, when Susannah's mother showed up to see what the noise was about. The room reeked of liquor. That was why I was sentenced to my room for the week, and my mother took my shoes. There was a play at school and I wanted to see it. You know the rest."

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Erik woke to the smell of something burning. His quick investigation revealed his breakfast, charred and unrecognizable.

"I'm sorry, M'sir. I'm still getting used to the gas burners." Garrick waved his hand in front of his face to clear the air and opened a window. "I will try again."

"Don't. I'll just have tea." Erik picked up the tea tray and carried it to the dinning room to escape the smell of his incinerated breakfast. Garrick followed him with a copy of the _Epoque_ and some croissants from the village bakery. Erik wiped the dust from the table with his handkerchief and set the tray down. Garrick noticed the gesture and blushed.

"I'll dust and sweep later, M'sir. I'm sorry that the house is so untidy. I know that you like it clean." Garrick said apologetically.

"I'll do it." Erik said, discarding the soiled cloth. "I shall have to do some laundry as well. It is too much for you to do everything. I'm not a slave driver. Bachelors, like ourselves, need a housekeeper, a laundress, and a cook to look after us."

"I thought that you were going to marry." Garrick said, sitting down to drink his own tea and sneaking a look at his master to see if his words had any effect.

"I'm biding my time for now. With a stroke of luck, the old girl will die before I have to marry." Erik drank his tea and picked up the _Epoque_. It was already open to the society page. In bold print, the scheduled engagement party of Margaret Giry and Biagio Delvoix jumped at him. He pretended to ignore it. Garrick was studying him rather closely and he suspected that the youth had something to do with the page being turned. Erik suddenly regretted teaching the boy to read. Garrick reminded him, daily, in one way or another that Meg was marrying a lout who knew no self control.

"Yes," Erik said, turning the page, "I think we need a housekeeper, preferably a stout woman who is unbearably plain and a hearty worker. Now that we can afford such luxuries, I think a chef is in order as well. I wonder how Francois would feel about joining our little bachelor's club." Garrick stood, retrieved the handkerchief and returned to the kitchen with a defeated sigh. Erik smiled, taking another drink of his tea. "We shall leave for Paris tomorrow and bring back, with us, a housekeeper and a cook; I think."

Early the next morning Erik saddled the powerful, strong, chestnut stallion for himself and a mild natured palomino mare for Garrick. The horses were a gift from his grandmére. He knew she was trying to buy his loyalty by giving him his pony. But, they were part of his inheritance anyway. It did bother him, however, that she was being so meddlesome. Having someone, not even of his liking, make important decisions for him was just plain irritating. He was a grown man for pity sake. Why did this woman think that she had anything to say about what he did with his life? He knew the answer. He just didn't like it. In spite of his declaration to the contrary, he did want the money, though perhaps not the title. Going without the basic comforts of life had been a fear he fought constantly. He'd known ragged days of hunger and cold, and he knew that such conditions were never far away.

Monsieur Fulmeroix had delivered the accounts Erik was to manage. And, though he'd just begun to go through them, it was clear, Erik was a very rich man. He now owned a house in Paris which was staffed all year in case of his unexpected arrival. He also owned modest Chateaus in Toulouse, Limoges and Orleans, which were maintained year around by a live-in staff. Monsieur Fulmeroix informed him that his grandmother also used the houses regularly when traveling between her castle in the Midi-Pyrenees and Paris. Evidently his grandmother disliked staying at public inns and hotels. The staff had been informed that he would have unlimited access to the houses. The old lawyer tried to put Erik's mind at ease by assuring him that the staff at all four houses had proved themselves reliable for many years and would not jeopardize their positions by gossiping.

Erik and Garrick reached Paris three days later. It was almost dark when they arrived at the old mansion. The construction was of gray stone with a black mansard style roof. White shutters and trim adorned the windows and doors. Erik was still unused to approaching a house from the street and automatically looked for another way into the house. It was around two hundred years old, but in good repair. Light shone through several windows. Unlike most houses around it, there was a high fence of natural stone, topped by decorative, wrought iron rail. Huge iron gates barred his entrance. The gates proved to be unlocked when Erik tried the latch. The two weary travelers approached the house on the cobblestone drive. Erik was still looking for an alternative to the front door when he reminded himself for the tenth time that the house was his and the staff were unlikely to challenge his right to be there. Even the shroud of darkness did not hide the grandeur of the grounds. Fountains and stone statuary were illuminated by fading light. Trees and shrubs lined the drive leading to the house.

Erik left the horses with Garrick and went up the wide stairway to the great double doors. The key fit perfectly and the door opened easily. For some reason, Erik was surprised. It was like every Christmas and birthday that had been forgotten was being compensated for. Highly polished, white marble tiles shone on the floor. Gilded candelabras and gas fueled flames lit the room. A wide, curved stairway with a white ornate balustrade led to the second floor. Nine thick, marble pillars supported the weight of the exposed hallway above the center of the entrance. The spacious foyer, which could be called nothing less than extravagant, was a precursor to the splendor and luster of the rest of the house.

A balding, middle aged butler appeared and bowed. "Good evening, Monseiur. My name is Milton Van Doren. It is an honor to serve you." The man had obviously been prepared to some extent for the mask, because he avoided looking at it directly or appearing shocked. He had a aura about him that implied very little shocked him, these days. The front door remained open and the butler looked out to see Garrick waiting with the horses. "I will send for William to care for your horses. Will you be requiring refreshment?" He asked and pulled a heavy gold, tasseled cord.

"Yes I think we will take a light refreshment. Thank you, Milton. Are there stables for the horses here?"

"Yes, Monsieur. There is a barn and stables beyond the garden wall." Milton pointed in the direction of the back yard. "May I take your hat and cloak, Monsieur? Do you have any bags?"

"Yes, they are with my assistant, Garrick, who remains with the horses now." Erik removed his cloak, hat and gloves. Milton took them and put them in a nearby coat closet.

"Perhaps you would like a brandy, Monsieur, in the library." Milton led the way to a room with walnut paneled walls and scarlet upholstered chairs and a sofa. An oriental rug with hues of scarlet, forest, cream, gold and black occupied a large portion of the floor. At the two large windows hung heavy draperies of scarlet velvet trimmed with gold fringe. Oil lamps with smoky amber chimneys cast the room in golden shades of light.

Erik caught his reflection in the gold framed mirror set above a large marble mantle and fireplace. Behind him hung a portrait. The likeness was uncanny. He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it from the perspective of himself standing next to the portrait. He turned to stare at the face that should have been his own. It had to be his father. . It was a handsome face that peered out from the canvas. The hair in the portrait was darker than his own natural color. He held his hand up to cover half of the face in the portrait.

"Your brandy, Monsieur." Erik turned, startled at the sound of the butler's voice. Milton handed him the snifter and bowed. "Would you have your assistant dine with you or in the kitchen?" Erik was slightly taken aback at the question.

"With me, of course."

"Would you like for him to join you now?"

Erik nodded.

"I will show him in, Monsieur." Milton said and moments later Garrick followed the butler into the library.

"Pinch me and tell me I'm not dreaming!" Garrick said after emitting a low whistle. "On second thought, if it_ is _a dream, I'd rather not wake up."

Erik smiled at the boy's exuberance.

"What can I get for the young man to drink?" Milton addressed Erik. Erik was still unused to the customary relationships between master and servant. He'd come to think of Garrick as a friend.

"Ask him." Erik said. Milton looked at the youth, expectantly.

"Cold lemonade." Garrick responded cheerfully.

"Of course, Monsieur."

Erik and Garrick dined on roast chicken, cheese and rice souffle with steamed peas in butter sauce, crusty sourdough rolls, fruit salad, and for dessert, raspberry tarts.

Garrick ate heartily, exclaiming his appreciation after sampling each of the culinary treats. "How will I ever be the same? Please, M'sir, don't make me eat my own cooking again!" He said, after finishing his meal. "If all this were mine, I would drink my brandy and smoke cigars in a steaming bubble bath."

"Where did you manage to hear of such a thing?" Erik questioned, laughing a little at the boy's enthusiasm.

"My mother used to work for a rich gentleman and she said that was what he did, whenever he won at the races."

"Milton," Erik addressed the butler. "My young friend here would like a steaming bubble bath, a cigar and a brandy. See that he gets it, would you?" Garrick's jaw dropped and he stared at Erik.

"M'sir!" Garrick voice skipped an octave in his surprise.

"Enjoy your bath. I will be going out this evening. I can't say that I've missed Paris, but I have neglected some of my old haunts." Erik turned to the butler. "Garrick shall require some new clothes. Could you take him shopping tomorrow morning and help him choose something decent? Also take one of my suits to the tailor, Andre Rubens. He will be able to duplicate it. Tell him I'd like a dozen."

"Yes, Monsieur. Will you require a carriage or a horse when you go out this evening?"

"A carriage, I think." Erik was still a little saddle sore from riding all day.

"Do you require a driver?"

"No, but I don't know how late I will be."

"It doesn't matter, Monsieur. William will be available to care for the horse, whenever you return. Perhaps, Monsieur, you would like to see your rooms, for the evening, before you leave."

Erik agreed.

"Also, Monsieur, do you wish to meet the staff. They are anxious to meet you."

Erik hesitated. He felt reluctant to be on display, but refusing to meet with them would bring on distrust. The cook had prepared an excellent meal. He would be a poor master not to acknowledge the effort. "Of course, bring them in."

"Yes, Monsieur." Milton bowed and withdrew from the room. Almost instantly he returned, followed by eight more people. Erik stood to greet them. Milton introduced the housekeeper, a cultured woman on the better side of forty as his wife, Stella. Genevieve, also a woman of about forty, was the cook. The chamber maids, Darcy and Lianne were young girls, still in their teens, as was the kitchen maid, Wendy. All three girls were Milton's daughters. Phoebe, was the capable looking woman responsible for the laundry. William, Phoebe's husband, was the carriage driver and groom, while his brother Herbert took care of the grounds and garden. They, too, had been prepared for the mask, for none of them showed any sign of surprise at the sight of him. Erik was pleased and touched that these people would receive him without fear. Darcy and Leanne even blushed and nudged each other when he nodded to them politely. Wendy was looking at Garrick shyly. It was her look that reminded him that he should introduce his assistant and himself.

"I am Erik, the new Marquis de Leon. This is Garrick Mahoney, my secretary and assistant. Thank you for the welcome and all of your hard work here. It a comfort to know that I am so well received by all of you." The small group beamed their pleasure at his words.

"We shall be getting about our work now." Milton addressed the staff more than Erik.

"They seem nice." Garrick said after they left. Erik nodded, but did not comment. He was still getting used to being in the company of so many people at once. There was none that seemed intimidating and he was getting over wanting to intimidate others. There was a closeness they shared with each other that was touching. They were a family. Erik stood and turned away so the boy would not see the tears that moistened his eyes. The cheery group had been warm and welcoming. Why did it make him feel more alone than ever?

Milton returned to show them to their rooms upstairs. There were eight bedrooms on the second floor. The two bedrooms on the main floor were used by his grandmother and Monsieur Fulmeroix when they were in the city. The rooms on the third level were for the staff.

Erik's room was paneled in rich walnut wainscot on the lower portion and cream colored wallpaper on the upper wall. The two large widows opened as French doors out on to a spacious balcony overlooking the artful gardens and were framed by velvet drapes of hunter green and gold fringe. The deep green bedspread was a rich satin brocade featuring a leaf pattern and red berries. The bed was large and canopied with a wood frame. Curtains of a richly textured brocade in the same cloth as the bedspread were tied back against the four posters. A chest of drawers matched the French provincial style of the bed. Above the black marble fireplace a painting of a pair of mallards just taking flight hung, flanked by a pair of carved wooden ducks, also in flight. Between the windows two comfortable, velvet upholstered chairs of the same hue as the draperies were placed invitingly. A large, gold framed mirror occupied much of the space on the wall between the windows. Gaslight flames burned lowed, casting the room in a softened incandescence. The bedroom smelled of lavender and something else spicy and woody. There was a walk-in closet and an adjoining bathroom.

Garrick's room, further down the wide hallway, was smaller yet no less comfortable. There was a common bathroom accommodating two other rooms near by.

Erik was sufficiently impressed with the tasteful decor and over-all warmth of the house. Never had he believed that such a place would be his. The Chateau de Bagen was just a country cottage in comparison. The other three houses were just modest little houses that were maintained by local people who had homes of their own in the city. He and Garrick had spent a night at each of them while traveling to Paris and never seen the people who looked after the houses.

Erik needed to put some distance between himself and the house. The carriage was waiting. Milton returned his cloak and hat. Erik found some solace in the dark streets of Paris and the rhythmic bounce of the carriage. The horse was well trained and easy to manage. But Erik rarely had trouble with animals. It was the human species that gave him trouble.

It was all a little too much at once. The house, servants, the title and even the money. On some level Erik always knew he was born to privilege, he felt it in his bones. In someways, the mansion felt like coming home. In another, more desperate one, it felt like a trap.

Never had he known the responsibility of a real home and a family that depended on him for their upkeep. The Chateau de Bagen did not have servants and if he lost it for some reason, the only person to suffer would have been himself. Garrick could take care of himself. Erik did not doubt it. The tremendous duty of keeping the holdings of the title prosperous was beginning to dawn on him. There were leases being paid monthly on property and businesses, but that income would stop if the business failed.

He'd read in the paper, that after the uprising of the Paris Commune, the government issued an edict that poor families were to be forgiven nine months rent. At the time, it didn't occur to Erik that it would be his problem. But that was before he knew that he owned an entire block of housing in one of the poorest districts in the city. There were farms barely surviving due, in part, to the high rent on the land. All of the properties and businesses together produced a generous profit. Individually, they were not producing as much as they should. The need for more money did not drive Erik to work out strategies for better management. It was the fear of losing what he had already and causing many others to lose their livelihoods by default that tortured his mind. The mansion produced no income of its own. What would happen to Milton and his family if Erik failed to fulfil his end of the deal? They looked to him for their employment. A bead of sweat broke out on his brow at the thought. It was the fear of failure that made him feel so alone.

Erik found himself on the banks of the Seine. It was one of his favorite places to be when he needed to think. The ageing castle in which his grandmother lived at the moment was undoubtedly a national treasure, but it was costing a fortune to maintain. She'd said herself that she didn't want to spend another winter there. It could be turned into something useful like a boarding school or another useful institution. If it could just carry it's own cost of operation, it would be worth the investment. Otherwise it could be sold. He doubted his grandmother would see it that way. There were other ways to improve the properties to make them more profitable. Erik began to relax at each prospect. The problems weren't insurmountable. They just needed to be dealt with one at a time. He was beginning to look forward to the challenges ahead.

An agitated breeze stirred the air. It was a moonless night and there were no stars out, due to the cloud cover. A storm was brewing. Erik lit the lanterns on the carriage and started back to the mansion. It was still a little soon for him to think of it as home. Erik approached a pub, well lit and boisterous. He could see from the light spilling from the windows of the tavern that some boys were tormenting someone huddled against some crates. The high pitched keening sounded vaguely familiar. As he drew nearer. He recognized the huddled figure. It was Patsy. One of the boys threw something at her and she flinched. It was a stone. Erik stopped the carriage and jumped down from the buckboard. The boys ran, disappearing into the night. He was alone in the street except for Patsy. He approached her cautiously, not wanting to frighten her further.

"Patsy." Erik touched her shoulder. She shrank away from him. Her clothes and hair were even dirtier than he remembered. "It's better now. You are safe." She continued the keening. He wasn't likely to do her any good here in the street and there was little chance that she would trust him or anyone. He lifted her into his arms. Though she resisted, she did not possess the strength to prevent him from carrying her to the carriage and placing her inside. Erik drove the carriage with Patsy in it back to the mansion.

He carried her inside to the surprise and horror of Milton.

"This is Patsy. She needs a bath and someone to help her. I cannot imagine the scandal it would cause if I were to do it myself. She is probably mentally ill in some capacity, but she is harmless and needs some attention." Erik said standing in the foyer with the keening woman in his arms.

"Stella!" Milton ran halfway up the stairway and called frantically for his wife, who appeared almost instantly.

"For heaven sakes, what is all the fuss?" Stella came hurrying down stairs. She stopped when she saw Erik and his guest. Milton was still gasping for air and something to say.

Erik repeated what he'd told Milton. He added, "I never bring home strays. She is a friend of mine who was being abused terribly and I couldn't let her remain where she was."

"Of course, Monsieur. The girls and I will see that she is taken care of. I don't know how she is going to respond to taking a bath and if she has lice, she must be shaved. It is the only way not to infect the entire house hold." Stella announced.

"Do what you must. There isn't a chance that she will cooperate, so just do what you have to." Erik agreed.

"Shouldn't she be in an institution for the insane?" Milton finally found his voice.

"Absolutely not!" Erik said with authority. "Those places are dreadful. She is harmless and doesn't need to be locked up!"

"How are we to care for her? How will she occupy herself during the day? Does she have a family?" Milton was looking a bit flustered.

"I am her family." Erik said. His words probably had more effect on him than Milton, but the butler nodded his head as though it was settled.

"Milton, I need a brandy!" Erik said after Stella and Darcy gently coaxed the keening Patsy upstairs. To drown out the terrified cries of Patsy as she was scrubbed and shaved by Stella and Darcy, Erik found some alleviation for his nerves at the ornate baby grand piano. It was in a room, more or less an extension of the main hall. Only the stairway separated it into two areas. The piano was the main feature of the room. There were three sets of glass French doors that opened out on to a large terrace, overlooking the gardens at the back of the house. Two settees and a couple of chairs were the only other furniture. It was obviously a room meant for parties and balls. For now, the piano rang out in peaceful cadences.

In time, Patsy was subdued and given something to eat and warm milk to drink. She was put in one of the bedrooms upstairs and the household settled down for the night just after the stroke of midnight.

There had been a time when Erik would not have been able to sleep in a house with so many other people, but after the events of the evening, he was only too willing to close himself behind the locked door of his bedroom. The storm outside raged. Lightening and thunder shook the earth with it's fierce intensity, but Erik slept implicitly.

The next morning, he woke confused by the strange surroundings. Light peeked through the drawn curtains the best it could. Erik rose and opened the curtains. The sun was shining in unabashed glory. He blinked and closed the drapes. Sunlight could be cruel.

Stella was there to greet him when he walked downstairs. "Good morning, Monsieur. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, actually, I did." Erik smiled at her. It was the least he could do after she'd come through for him and Pasty. She seemed to be a sensible person and he was still in shock that she did not recoil from him. "How is everyone else this morning, including yourself?"

"I am well, thank you. Patsy is still in her room. She does not want to come out. She has had her breakfast and she is resting again. She seems exhausted. Milton had gone with Garrick as you instructed him and we expected him to return before lunch. We have saved breakfast for you. Do you wish for tea or coffee?"

"Coffee. Thank you, Stella, for what you did for Patsy last night. I admit, I don't know how it is going to work out, but I couldn't leave her in the street. If she becomes too much a burden, I will find another place for her." Erik promised.

"You said, she was your family. We are here to serve your family. It is what you pay us to do. If we are unable to care for her, then I will let you know. She seems to be a fragile little thing, hardly a bother at all. We hardly see the marchioness any more. But, she writes us that she will be returning soon."

"How soon?" Erik wanted to know. If there was anyway that he could be gone before his grandmother arrived he would do it.

"This week perhaps." Stella responded.

He was finishing his breakfast when Stella handed him a small stack of envelopes. "These are addressed to you. We often get invitations addressed to the Marquis de Leon. They may or may not interest you but I though I would let you decide." She said and left him to read them. The largest caught his attention. Inside, he found an invitation to the engagement party for Margaret Giry and Biagio Delvoix. The party was to be held tomorrow evening at eight o'clock.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Erik took a moment to let his heart rate return to normal. He knew Meg was getting married, but he thought that in time he would get used to the idea. If he kept his mind busy, he wouldn't have to think about her. The invitation was probably an accident. There was no way for Meg to know of his title. More likely than not, it was an automatic courtesy to invite the nobility to these functions if it was being hosted by another of the aristocracy. He knew that the absence of an invitation was considered an insult in some circles.

It was ironic, however that Lily Fairmont would be inviting him to Meg's engagement party when he'd once been an uninvited guest to her own. Another strange coincidence was that it was to be a masque. An inkling of a thought presented itself to him. Meg wanted him to be there. Why would she think that he would be interested in seeing her with another man? Didn't she know that he'd want to kill the man that touched her? Of course, she knew. She was baiting him again. Meg had no intention of marrying the disgraceful Biagio Delvoix. She had better sense. It was a plot to force him to declare his feelings for her. Damn her! He would not be manipulated! It angered him that she would think he was so gullible.

Erik buried himself in the library working on the accounts. They were a mess. Mostly they were out of date and had been for the last five years. He was beginning to understand why his grandmother was so willing to let him take on the duties of the Marquis de Leon. Not another living soul would have done it. Fulmeroix had tried to keep up with them but it was clear that it had gotten to be too much for him alone. But why hadn't Grandmére Eustacia hired someone else? It was late afternoon when Erik discovered the answer. She had hired someone, someone who had misrepresented the accounts and stolen a sizable sum of money.

Again, the piano beckoned to Erik to release the tension building in him. The works of Beethoven fit his mood at the moment. He could play the tunes by memory and by ear. It was rare that he needed to see a piece of music more than twice. The music seemed to imprint itself if it was worth keeping. It wasn't uncommon for him to play his own original material, though he'd written little of it down. Sometimes he couldn't remember it past the first time he played a piece through.

A musical phrase had begun to reiterate itself in his head. Eventually he started playing it on the piano. Follow up phrases and variations presented themselves on cue. It was a rather passionate composition with varied dynamics and an almost heartbreaking sweetness. He played it twice through enjoying the feel of the responsive instrument beneath his fingers. When he finished, Erik sat with his elbows leaning against the piano and his hands brought together, almost as if her were in the act of prayer. In was a contemplative gesture, though at the moment his mind was rejecting conscious thought. The feeling that he was being watched came over him.

Patsy stood behind him. At first, he didn't even recognize her. She wore a white cap to cover her baldness. The dove gray dress she wore fit her badly. Her eyes were prominent on her thin, pale face. Erik stood, unsure of how to respond to her. The extent of her condition was a mystery to him in spite of his good intentions, she scared him a little with her vacant look.

"Patsy." Erik greeted her kindly. She'd never shown any repulsion of the mask but neither had she seen him in broad daylight. She barely looked at him. Instead, she stared at the piano. Erik stepped away from it to allow her access. She sat down on the bench and began to play a little ditty Erik recognized from Bach's very famous _The Well-Tempered Clavier. _He let her continue. She had been taught to play somewhere by someone. It opened up more questions to her background.

"Patsy, who taught you to play?" Erik asked, hunched down to her level so that he could see her eyes. She wasn't inclined to raise them to look at him and she always kept them down cast.

"Papa." She said, but still didn't look at him.

"What happened to your Papa?"

"Small pox. Everybody died, Mama, Papa, Nana..."

"How old were you when they died?" Erik probed. It was better that he learn as much as possible while she was willing to share information.

"Seven...seventeen."

"How old are you now?"

"Seventeen." She said, frowning. She didn't look a day under thirty. Pock marks on her neck and forehead indicated that she was a survivor of the disease that claimed her family.

"Did you go to school and learn to read and write?" Erik asked, softly.

"Yes. I can do sums, too." She smiled now and looked at him for the first time. "I was the best in my class." She announced proudly. There a was a childish element in her declaration.

"What else can you do?"

Patsy furrowed her brow in puzzlement. "I don't know."

"Do you want to stay here with Milton and Stella? They will look after you. I may have to leave." It would ease his mind if she were content to stay at the mansion for now. If she decided to leave, he wouldn't stop her. He didn't want to be her jailor.

"They shaved my head!" She said, indignant.

"It was because of the lice. You don't want lice, do you?"

"No!" She wrinkled her nose at the thought.

"Your hair will grow back and be as lovely as ever," Erik reassured her, though he'd never seen it other than a ratty, tangled mess.

Garrick and Milton returned from their shopping with packages weighing them down. Their efforts yielded three morning dresses and two pretty frocks for Patsy, one yellow and one blue. Patsy was delighted with the new dresses and Erik could see a change in her when she took the first dress out of its box.

Garrick was wearing his new suit and shoes proudly. Erik found a deeply satisfying joy in witnessing their pleasure. He couldn't resist smiling. At Erik's direction, Milton had purchased something for everyone in the house hold. There were useful and necessary items such as shoes and boots, bonnets and hand lotions, and some pretty trinkets for the girls.

"This is like Christmas in August. Thank you, Monsieur!" Wendy exclaimed. The others agreed. Erik was completely taken off guard when Wendy threw her arms around his waist and embraced him tightly. She released him before he could visibly react. The shock of the contact passed quickly. But, the emotion that swept over him choked him and he turned away so that the others wouldn't see his reaction. No one was fooled, however, and Stella and Milton exchanged glances. Wendy knew that she had bridged some unspoken boundary instantly when everyone became suddenly silent. Stella put her hand on Wendy's shoulder to reassure the girl that she had not committed an inexcusable error with her behavior.

Erik excused himself and went to his room. He didn't want to weep and fought the lump in his throat. Young Wendy had no way of knowing how her innocent heart had affected him. He'd actually planned on being somewhere else when Milton handed out the gifts. He didn't want to be in the awkward situation he'd found himself in just now. It was a failure on his part to mention that little detail to Milton.

Even now, he wasn't sure what exactly had prompted him to tell Milton to buy the gifts except that he felt extremely uncomfortable bestowing gifts upon one or two people and ignoring everyone else. Something had changed in that moment when Wendy embraced him. It was acceptance that was shared by everyone. Erik had felt it when they waited for his reaction to Wendy's demonstration of appreciation. They cared and feared to offend him. No one could chastise her for her genuine act. It was undoubtedly a rare exchange that would not be repeated. Erik hoped as much. He just wasn't very good at this kind of thing.

Erik didn't sleep well that night. Eventually, he dressed and left the house to find some peace on the banks of the Seine. He rode the stallion through the streets of Paris. It was strange how once the earth beneath those streets had been his home. Now it was as though it had all been a dream or a nightmare, depending on how he chose to look at it.

The cellars of the opera, the productions that were so important to him and Christine were also like another life. There were months when not a day went by that he didn't lament the loss of his lovely Christine. He still thought of her as his. At least the image he still held on to in his mind was his creation. Perhaps the fatal error of their relationship was the impossibly high pedestal he'd placed her on. And, on her part, how could he measure up to her expectations when she believed that he was an angel?

His thoughts inevitably sought Meg. He was still angry with her. Her plan of entrapment was an easy puzzle to put together. He'd almost fallen for it. She had to have known that he had feelings for her. It was all he could do to resist her those days and nights she'd helped him with Garrick. He'd betrayed himself more than once by kissing her. Surely, she'd felt his heart race with her own. She'd accused him of using her affections against her when he'd climbed up to her balcony. Now she used his emotions against him. Was she really that desperate to devise a plot to force his hand? His own thought surprised him. How could she force him into declaring his love? Only he could do such a thing. She was simply sending him a message that he was being an idiot.

How many times in his lifetime had he been offered the kind of love Meg symbolized. Not even once. She scared him. He was afraid that at some time for some reason, she would regret being his. It would be too much for him to lose her as he'd lost Christine. He'd really placed so much faith in Christine that when she betrayed him, he'd lost more than the woman he loved. He lost hope in ever being loved. Though it would have been easy enough, he could hardly blame Christine. She had never professed to love him, never deceived him with promises she did not keep. He had done that to himself.

Now, Erik struggled with his demons of self-doubt. If he did not go to Meg and profess his desire for her, she may never know that she was loved as she was. For many months, Erik believed that Meg would find a good and worthy husband who would cherish her as she deserved. If such a man existed for her, where was he? Why did he let her become engaged to a swine like Delvoix? Not for the first time, the thought occurred to Erik that he was the one who let her sink so low as to put herself in such a dangerous plan. He was the man who loved her as she deserved to be loved, and he would be the man who let her down if he did not find the courage within himself to reach out to her.

Erik did not return to the mansion that night, but spread his cloak on the grassy bank of the Seine and dosed restfully. At the crack of dawn, Erik mounted his horse and rode back to the mansion. He took care of his horse and tack. There was no point in waking William; Erik actually enjoyed the time spent with his horses. The household was still asleep. Erik found his role as Lord of the Manor easier to manage in empty rooms. He was slowly getting used to people, but he was a long way from being able to relax in the company of very many people at once. Erik explored the gardens, the barn and the odd nooks and corners of the grounds. It was a beautiful place. It would have been a great place to be a child. High brick walls protected the grounds on all sides. A gravel drive led to the stables the back of the property. The grounds took in a little over two acres. The house wasn't in the heart of Paris. But, it was close enough to have most of the advantages without the disadvantages of being so close to one's neighbors that one couldn't piss in a pot without everybody else knowing about it.

When Erik returned to the house, Milton was busy with the daily routines. The butler greeted Erik cheerfully and asked if he would like a cup of tea or coffee before breakfast.

"Coffee for now and tea for breakfast, thank you. Where is Garrick?"

"In the kitchen, I believe. I will tell him you require his presence immediately."

"He can find me in the library." Erik was surveying the portrait of his father with interest when Garrick found him.

"M'sir." Erik turned at the sound of Garrick's voice.

"Good morning. Do you think you can hire a carriage and go back to the Chateau by yourself?"

"Of course, M'sir."

"Do you think you can take a blind man with you? Francois is blind. I want you to offer him a job as our cook at the Chateau. If he refuses, we will have to eat your cooking. Tell him that he can name his wage."

"I think I could manage it. What about a housekeeper? You said we needed a housekeeper too."

"I don't think we'll have time to interview anyone. You will be leaving today, soon. Unless you know someone we can trust, you'll have to do the housework yourself."

"I know somebody!" Garrick said quickly.

"Don't be too hasty. The mask may frighten them."

"I won't be careless, M'sir. May I ask why the urgent departure?"

"My grandmother is due to arrive sometime this week. I want to be gone when she gets here. But, I can't leave as of yet. I will most likely follow you this evening or early tomorrow. I may be bringing a guest to the chateau. Try to put it in some order before I arrive. We left it in a bit of disarray, as I recall." Erik told the boy where he would find Francois. "Don't hesitate to tell him Erik is the Marquis de Leon. Even at that, he may have some difficulty believing it."

"Are you bringing Patsy with you?" Garrick asked.

"No. It may not be such a good idea to leave her here. Take her with you. I don't think she'll give you any trouble."

Garrick left after breakfast to take Erik's offer to Francois. He returned shortly before lunch with a hired carriage and the message that Francois would gladly take his offer. Patsy was like a reluctant child, but Erik was able to coax her into going with Garrick.

Erik was relieved that they were gone when his grandmother turned up at the mansion late that afternoon with her entourage of servants. He didn't know why, but he disliked explaining himself to the woman. It was even more irritating that she could read him as easily as she did. He didn't dine with her that evening and he knew it bothered her. If he could have avoided her entirely, he would have. He almost managed to get out the front door, when she saw him.

"All dressed up? Where are you off to that you can't even greet your grandmother?" Eustacia's voice crackled from the doorway of the library. Erik stopped, but did not turn and kept his hand on the door nob.

"I had hoped that I could avoid you altogether. But, since I failed at that... How are you, _Grandmére_? I trust you traveled well." He turned to look at her, but not enough to reveal the mask.

"You're looking dapper." She approached him, using her cane for support and stopped just a few feet away. The instinct to run battled weakly with the strict lessons his mother had taught him about respecting one's elders. Erik blushed from her bold inspection. "I know that look. You're going courting. I don't suppose I should be surprised, but I am." She said with a laugh that implied her approval. "Are you going to marry her?" Eustacia demanded, her eyes shining triumphantly through cloudy cataracts.

"Only if you have a priest here when I return." Erik replied, and left after dropping a generous bow to his stupefied _grandmére_.

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Meg fiddled nervously with her fan. The gold spines and purple lace of her delicate fan matched perfectly with her dress. It was full skirted with eight tiers of purple lace ruffles trimmed on the edges with flat gold ribbon. The bodice was solid gold silk forming deep vees in the back and front, accentuating her flat stomach. Rows of narrow, purple velvet ribbon created a striped effect on the gold bodice. The lace sleeves were short and full with a wide ruffle reaching just below her elbows. The neckline was low and square with a draw-string, fashioning a ruffled affect with a purple lace inset. Her mask was small and gold with purple glitter framing the edge. It really did little to disguise her, barely covering the upper portion of her face. On her feet were dainty gold leather dancing shoes. Her hair was pinned up high and a purple beaded barrette.

Her fiancé was never far from her side. Delvoix was a short, stocky man with red hair so tightly curled, it bordered on frizzy. Meg avoided looking at him as much as possible. His face was even redder than his hair. He seemed all one color. Even his eyes had a bloodshot quality that seemed to go appropriately with the rest of him. He was inclined to want to put his hands on her, holding her hand or putting his arm about her waist. Meg tried not to shrink away and even let him kiss her on the cheek for appearance sake. He appeared to be enjoying himself immensely.

The party was a gala event. Almost everyone with an invitation turned out. Meg had never met most of the people there, but she smiled and greeted each one of them dutifully. Raoul and Christine were there, mingling sociably with the other guests. Privately, she wished Christine had found some other pressing engagement that would have interfered with her coming to Paris. Meg really didn't want her friend seeing her in the degraded position of being engaged to Delvoix. It was after ten o'clock when she escaped the crowd and found Lily introducing some guests to one another.

"How much longer are we going to keep up this charade?" Meg whispered low in Lily's ear.

"Don't give up yet. The night is young." Lily answered, cheerfully. The two women found a quiet corner to talk.

"That is what bothers me. How can I take another hour of Biagio trying to kiss me? He makes my skin crawl." Meg complained.

"Remember, it is for a greater cause. Smile and think of something else." Lily suggested.

Biagio interrupted their discussion, whining that Meg should meet his cousin. Meg rolled her eyes at Lily in a silent plea as he pulled her away. The cousin wanted a dance and Biagio seemed pleased with the prospect. The cousin was taller than Biagio and had black hair, but the reddened complection seemed to run in the family. Meg didn't bother to remember his name. She wanted to forget about her phony engagement as quickly as possible.

A glance in Lily's direction told her that Lily had found a charming partner. Meg could not see his face, because his back was toward her. Lily was smiling and blushing prettily. There was something familiar about him, but Meg was whirled away before she got a good look at him. The dance ended and Biagio claimed her for the next one... and the next one. When she looked again, Lily and the stranger were no longer in sight. Biagio was holding Meg too close and his face was almost pressed against her breasts. She tried to keep him at arms length. Each time she relaxed, he moved closer.

Meg was almost to the point of screaming when the bright lights went off, suddenly. With the exception of a few candelabras, the house was dark. Biagio tried to take advantage of the moment and pull her even closer. She pushed him away in disgust, gasping with revulsion.

She screamed when she was grabbed and hauled off her feet. She was lifted high and carried over a large shoulder. There was something familiar and safe about the arms that supported her. She almost cried with relief. Aside from the detail that she was half upside down and blood was rushing to her head, she had never felt so alive!

Erik carried her through the door without delay to the gardens where she had first kissed him those months ago. His horse was waiting for them. Meg was set up on the horse's back. Erik pulled himself up behind her and kicked the horse into action. Neither spoke as the horse carried them into the night.

There was so much Meg wanted to say. Her mind was a muddle of questions. But, she dared not speak for fear breaking the silent communication she shared with him now. It was a moonless, starless night and the street of Paris were dark with the exception of a few street lamps and the occasional lantern hanging near a doorway. The wind was stirring and getting stronger by the minute. Erik wrapped his cloak about her wordlessly. A flash of lightening and a clap of thunder announced the arrival of the down pour that followed. It was a warm rain that washed down upon them. The horse slowed, carefully finding its way through the puddles and the pouring rain toward the mansion where a dry stable and sweet hay rewarded his journey.

The horse stopped before the iron gates of the grand house. Erik dismounted, opened the gates and led the horse, with Meg still on its back, up the stone drive. The house was alight with every window pouring out a warm and welcoming glow. Meg stared. Once again, she was rendered speechless. Not two words had been exchanged between Erik and herself. She feared that if she spoke now, the spell would be broken and she would find that it was all a dream. Erik lifted her off the horse and carried her up the steps to the great double doors. It was a perfect and glorious dream!

She was carried into the foyer. No sooner had they come through the door, when a flurry of people surrounded them, some gasping in surprise. An elderly woman with a cane approached them saying something about not believing her eyes. A clergyman appeared out of nowhere and tittered something politely about the happy couple. It was surreal. Someone said something about letting the girl get into some dry clothes...

"No." It was Erik, who spoke. "Marry us now and be done with it." There was calm and matter of fact tone to his voice that brought Meg out of her trance. Erik placed her gently on her feet. He looked deeply into her eyes, searching expectantly for her refusal or acceptance.

"I am Father Ramon. Do you want the long version or the short one?" The priest cleared his throat. He was an older man, possibly in his late sixties, who possessed a kind twinkle in his eyes.

"The short one!" Erik declared emphatically.

"May I have the name of the bride?" Father Ramon looked expectantly at Meg. This was the point of no return, Meg thought. If she allowed her pride or fears to interfere, it would be to her eternal sorrow. She forced herself to ignore that her hair was ruined, plastered against her face and neck in dark and dripping strands and her dress clung flattened and damp against her legs. She removed the mask for the first time that evening. She wanted Erik to know beyond a shadow of doubt who stood before him.

"Margaret Adele Giry." She supplied.

The shortened ceremony was still too long by Meg's standards and she was shivering with cold before she gave her consent to be Erik's wife til death did they part. As part of their vows, they kissed but in the presence of so many strangers it was an uncomfortable moment for Meg. Erik, too, didn't seem inclined to prolong it longer than necessary.

"My dear, I am Erik's grandmother, Eustacia." The old woman approached Meg, beaming her approval. "I worried this day would never happen. Be patient with him, dear. It will be hard at times, but nothing worth having ever comes easy. You'll need a warm bath immediately, so you don't get a chill, dear." Eustacia clasped Meg's hands in her own and the tears puddled in the old woman's eyes.

"It is late and we are all very tired." Eutsatcia addressed the small crowd gathered in the foyer. "Thank you Father Ramon. You can expect my donation to the church on Sunday. I will be attending the early service. Now, it is my bedtime, and I expect that everyone will do likewise and let me get some sleep. Alice, find my liniment and bring me a brandy, Milton. My knees get stiffer by the day." The old woman departed followed by Alice, who hovered over her attentively. Father Ramon blessed Meg and Erik and left quickly. Erik introduced Meg to the servants who remained. They seemed warm and eager to please her.

"I must apologize for the inconvenience, Madame. The marquis did not warn us that we would be having a wedding this evening." The butler said, bowing deeply and giving Erik a cool look.

"I was a little surprised, myself, Miton." Erik said reprovingly. "Honestly, I did not think Eustacia would take me serious about the priest. I really had no idea that I would be married this night any more than you did. I confess I underestimated the old girl. But, for the life of me, I can't say that I'm sorry."

Erik turned to Meg. "I, also, apologize for my clumsy ways. If you will forgive me for neglecting you for so long, I will make it up to you for the rest of my life."

Meg did not trust herself yet to speak. There was so much to take in. The butler had called Erik 'The Marquis.' The house and servants seemed to know him. He had a grandmother, for pity sake. When did all this come about? There was so much she didn't know. Erik had another life that she knew nothing about. All the time, he lived in the Paris Opera House and in the room under the laundry, he was a marquis. She had pitied him, believing him to be a misunderstood genius. By his own admission, he did not plan to marry her until his grandmother interfered. Suddenly, she felt foolish and small.

"Your bath is ready, Madame." A young woman around her own age told her. The girl called her Madame. Meg was a married woman. For some reason, she didn't feel it. She was a part of the ceremony, but there was something missing. Erik was still looking at her expectantly. Oh yes, he wanted her forgiveness. She stared at him. Even if she tried, she could not be angry with him, but for now she was cold and her teeth chattered uncontrollably. He seemed to sense that she was beyond coping with the details of their marriage for the moment.

"Darcy, take Madame de Leon to her bath." He said turning away.

The girl nodded. Meg followed Darcy up the grand staircase to her room.

The rich mahogany furniture formed a mellow contrast to the wine colored draperies and pink roses embroidered on the cream bedspread. Clusters of pink roses twined with blue ribbon formed a showy pattern on the thick, plush carpet. Fresh cut roses in perfect pink, open blooms filled a crystal vase on the low table next to the roomy bed. Their sweet fragrance filled the room. The bathroom connected her's and Erik's room. Darcy gave her that piece of information.

Darcy helped Meg remove her dress and left her to her bath. The steaming water felt too hot until Meg adjusted to the stinging sensation on her cool skin. She washed her hair and sank down into the deep, soothing heat. The water covered everything except her head. She'd about decided that she never wanted to leave when Darcy appeared with a large soft towel and offered to help brush her hair. Meg found a delicate white night gown and robe laid out on her bed. It was a beautiful silk and satin creation. Meg almost cried with the loveliness of the piece.

"Where did it come from?" She asked Darcy.

"It arrived from Madame Fairmont just moments ago. There is a note for you." Darcy handed Meg a envelope. Meg read the message inside: 'Dear Meg, I have been saving this for you as a wedding gift. I don't know when I will see you again and I wanted you to have it now. I met Erik and wish both of you every happiness. Also, I have sent some of your clothing and will send the rest of your things tomorrow. Love Always, Lily. P.S. I told you he would come.'

Meg smiled though eyes, moistened by unshed tears. She was fortunate to have Lily as a friend.

Darcy brushed Meg's hair til it was dry, then left. Meg put on Lily's gift. Never had she worn such a fine and beautiful gown. In the vanity mirror, Meg saw her reflection. Her skin and hair stood out in golden contrast to the angelic white of the gown.

The mirror revealed a motion behind her. She froze and watched as Erik approached. His gaze met her's in the mirror. He wore a white shirt and black trousers. The mask was white and reflected softly in the candlelight. His lips parted as if he were about to speak, but changed his mind and stared at her reflection along side his own. Breaking the spell, his eyes left hers and he touched her hair, lifted a strand and let it slide through his fingers. His lips touched the exposed skin of her shoulder. The new growth of his beard was course against her skin. Meg closed her eyes and stifled a gasp of delight, not wanting him to misinterpret her action. Leaning against him she let him know that she was a willing participant, but still she was unsure of her boundaries.

He was her husband, yet there so much about him that was a mystery. She would let him initiate each new step of their lovemaking and trust him as she'd trusted no other. Already, she sensed that he would not hurt her or expect anything that would make her uncomfortable.

Reaching past her, Erik blew out the flames of each of the candles on the vanity. Only one candle remained lit next the bed. Erik drew her with him and extinguished it also. Meg knew that, for now, he would only feel safe in the dark. In the darkness, she gave him her soul and body without holding back the gifts and passion he required of her.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Thank you for the lovely reviews. Some of you wondered if the story was over. Hardly! I can't leave poor Reggie in Cambodia and poor Michelle is a mess. What is she going to do when he returns? Erik and Meg haven't overcome their obstacles yet. **

**Jen Lennon, are you ok? **

**Prying Pandora: I suspected that you were a loyal Christine supporter by your profile. I love Christine too, but the SILLY GIRL TURNED HIM DOWN! Anyway, glad that you gave our story a chance.**

**Charity, Misty, darkautumnchild, HPROXMYSOX, phantomlover22, Captain Oblivious and Princess Persephone, I'm so grateful for your steady reviews. Some days when I get feeling insecure, I think of you, my loyal readers, and it cheers me up considerably. :) :Group Hug:**

**Patiens-liberi: It's great to read your responses. You give such detail and a lot for me to think about. **

**Dragonheart RAB, it good to hear from you again!**

**taeyeon: I'm glad you finally reviewed! Good to hear from ya'! **

**Renee17: Thank you for your appreciation of one of my favorite lines and your loyalty. **

**Vagrant Candy: Thank you! and it doesn't end here.**

**jtbwriter; Good to hear from you and I hope you enjoy what is yet to come.**

'**Nee: Love that you love the story.**

**Katherine: Such detailed and specific reviews...How can I complain? Thank you!**

It was late in the morning when Meg opened her eyes. Erik was gone, but Meg hadn't really expected him to remain past daybreak. There was still a silent barrier that kept him from expressing himself. He'd held back when she had given herself entirely to him. She knew it, though she could not describe how she knew. Not for a moment did he humiliate or use her callously. He was gentle and considerate and she loved him all the more for it, but instinctively she felt there was something missing. Trust? He still did not trust her. The revelation was not unexpected, but still nonetheless painful.

It was nothing short of a miracle that he had married her to begin with. The events of the previous evening seemed to blur into an impossible puzzle. Had she really married the man she'd referred to as 'The Phantom of the Opera'? Surely they were not one and the same.

She held the duvet to her chest as she looked around the room for her nightgown and robe. They lay in a mound of lace and silk on the floor. Taking the sheet with her as she slipped from under the cover and wrapping it around her, she created a make-shift sarong. Meg made quick work of a bath and dressed quickly.

Darcy arrived with a breakfast tray and placed it on a table near a window. "The marquis says you should hurry. He wants to leave right away."

Leave? Where is he going? Meg was suddenly angry that he did not speak to her himself. She knew nothing about him leaving. Didn't a husband speak with his wife before making decisions for her? She did not voice her opinions. It would not do to have the servants gossiping.

Eustacia was in the smaller parlor and called out to her as she walked by the door. Meg went to her and kissed her cheek.

"Good morning, _Grandmére._" She said.

"I am so glad to see you, dear. For a moment there, I wondered if I had dreamed it all." She said, patting Meg's hand. "You must be a lovely girl to put up with Erik. He will hardly speak to me. I think he is still angry with me. But what is an old woman to do, when her only living offspring is so stubborn? You will give Erik children, won't you, dear? I don't like to use such harsh tactics as blackmail, but truly, I feared I would die before I saw another member of my family brought into this world. I do hope that you can forgive Erik for his undisciplined ways but you know he didn't really have anyone to show him any better."

"I don't understand, Grandmére. What do you mean that you don't like to use blackmail?" Meg asked, bewildered.

"Nothing, child... 'Tis an old woman babbling." Eustacia corrected hastily. "Go now. Erik will be wondering about you."

Meg found Erik in the library moments later. He gazed at her in a way that made Meg wonder if he was seeing her or an apparition. For an instant, he seemed in awe of her presence. It so disconcerted her that she forgot to be angry with him. He had that effect on her. She could be furious with him one minute and when he looked at her as he did then, her wrath evaporated. What was it that had made her so upset? Indeed there was a vulnerability about him that made her wonder what she'd been thinking. How could she have believed that he didn't trust her. It was himself he didn't trust. Why had she not seen it before?

"We must hurry. When the papers get a hold of your abduction, there will be no peace in this house. " Erik said breaking the silence. "I don't suppose there is a chance that your mother will fail to hear of it."

There were so many questions that still needed answers. She desperately wanted to know what had transpired that made him a marquis with a grandmother and apparently more money that she'd ever imagined. Meg simple lacked the courage to insist that he tell her. What fragile communication they shared now may not survive any hard questions.

"Where are we going?" She asked meekly.

"The Chateau de Bagen, of course." He said, as though she should already know.

"Of course."

It came as an even greater surprise that she was expected to ride her own horse...sidesaddle! Lily had included a stylish riding habit of soft, lightweight blue wool in the clothes she had sent to the house. Meg had never ridden a horse in her life, the previous night being the exception and she had no idea how to guide the animal.

Erik seemed surprised that she was so ill-educated that she did not even know how to ride. What did he expect? He did manage to hide his irritation to some degree and showed her how to handle the reins. She was slow at first, but the palomino was a gentle and well trained mare. In time, Meg was able to get the hang of it and found that she rather enjoyed the experience. However, she'd only been riding for a few hours when her backside became sore.

"How long before we get there?" Meg asked shifting uncomfortably.

"At the rate were going, about four days." Erik answered.

"No!" Meg gasped.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you had never ridden a horse before." Erik didn't sound sorry enough.

"Why couldn't we have taken a carriage?" Meg wasn't pleased at the prospect of riding til her entire body was black and blue.

"Is it so wrong for a man to want his wife by his side so soon after he is married? Besides, this way, we are riding together instead of one inside while the other one is out in the weather." Erik watched her. Meg looked away. "I see. You don't mind _me_ being out in the weather as much yourself!"

"I shall be sunburned and freckled before we get there." Meg was sorry for her words. She sounded petty and spoiled. In comparison to Erik's facial disfigurement, complaining about sunburn and freckles was silly. She would avoid doing it again.

"You'll get used to in a few days. It gets easier. I promise." Meg really didn't want to get used to it. She tried to be brave. It would do no good to continue whining about something that wasn't going to change. Meg endured, but the journey was longer than she'd expected. Even the scenery did nothing to alleviate her misery. They stopped on occasion to eat the food Milton had packed for them and let the horses get a drink. It seemed that Erik avoided the main highway. Perhaps that was another reason for him taking the horses without the carriage. The carriage would have required them to stay on the main road.

Meg felt bad for her protest and did not mention the carriage again. There was nothing more important to her than his safety and comfort.

It was late, well into the night when Meg and Erik arrived at the country cottage for the night. It appeared to be a modest two story structure. Three dormers emerged, evenly spaced in the steep roof. The main body of the house was built of natural stone and mortar. Tall windows were set on both sides of the centered door.

"Whose house is it?" Meg asked, wondering if they were treading on another's property.

"Mine." Erik answered, his lips twitched in amusement.

"How may houses do you have?" Meg didn't mean to sound doubtful, but it was hard to hide.

"Five houses and an ancient castle." Erik said, as he helped her dismount. She was so stiff and sore, she could barely stand and walking was a chore.

"Do I dare ask why you lived in the cellars of the Opera Populaire if you owned five houses and a castle?" She rubbed her aching muscles.

"Because my grandmother did not trust me to do my duty to the vast holdings of the title. It would seem that she's become desperate since the last accountant stole a sizable amount of money. And, since I'm the only family she has left, even my misbegotten countenance is not as bad as having the family line die out." Erik tethered the horses, then taking pity on her sore muscles, he carried her into the house.

The house was unpretentious, comfortable and tidy. The front door led into a cosy parlor. Erik took her straight to her room. There was no one else in the house.

"Did Eustacia blackmail you into getting married?" She asked him the question while he still held her.

"What did she say to you?" Erik went suddenly still.

"That she hated using blackmail, but you were so stubborn, what else could she do. Did you marry me to satisfy your grandmother so she would give you the money?" Meg hadn't intended to ask that question right now, but it was getting harder to ignore.

"Is that what you believe?" Erik put her down on the soft feather bed.

"I don't want to believe it. But, it was all so sudden." Meg said, following a groan inspired by her aching backside.

"Perhaps by your standards, it was. But, how long has it been since you first imposed yourself into my life. What do you expect from a man who has lived alone for so many years? Every time we met, it seems, you wanted something from me. I was just too dull to figure it out until you put together this engagement. Did you really intend to marry that man? If you did, then I should apologize for interfering. But, I knew you were trying to bait me. You see, I'm figuring you out. It's your way to throw out little comments that stay in a man's head." Erik smiled in spite of himself, and a mischievous twinkle lit up his eyes.

Meg looked away blushing. Erik knelt down on one knee to bring himself to her level.

"You don't even deny it. Smart girl. There was your comment about climbing up to your balcony to make love to you. How was I supposed to forget that one?" Erik spoke softly, sending a chill through Meg. It was as though he could read her mind.

"You make it sound so vulgar. I am ashamed of my own thoughts and words."

"I don't mean to. Quite the opposite, really. If you hadn't the courage to speak, I would have never believed it possible for you to see past the mask. As it is, I find it hard to fathom. If you have any more doubts of my intentions, put them away. You are no angel, but nevertheless a gift of God. You are the evidence that He hasn't given up on me, Meg." His voice was indulgent and husky. Meg reached out to him, bringing him closer so that his head rested beneath her chin. His arms went around her, almost crushing her with their strength. Meg cried out in anguish as her suffering muscles responded in torment. Erik released her instantly.

"I'll heat some water for your bath and take care of the horses. Rest here." Erik said, rising. He kissed her tenderly before leaving. Meg sank back on the soft bed, alone with her thoughts. He hadn't exactly answered her question, but his words had wrapped her in an invisible blanket of peace. Though he'd not said he loved her, no declaration of affection had ever been more profound.

There were few modern conveniences in the cottage. Erik went outside to pump the water and built a fire in the stove to heat it. They dined by candlelight on the provisions Milton sent with them while the water for Meg's bath was heating. A cursory investigation of the house revealed two bedrooms on the main floor and a kitchen. Meg didn't have the strength to walk upstairs.

She was ever so grateful for the heat that eased her aching muscles when she sank into the tub. In time, the water cooled and Meg was forced to leave the bath. She found the nightclothes Darcy packed for her on the bed. Erik must have brought them in. She was unable to bring much for her journey, but she had a few necessary items that could be carried on the horse. There was a simple blue morning dress and a pale green day dress. Her remaining items were sent by coach. At the rate they were traveling, her clothes would arrive at the chateau before she did. She put on the night gown and tidied up after herself.

Erik hadn't returned. Meg was tired and it was after midnight, but she couldn't settle down without knowing where Erik was and why he didn't come to her room. The house was quiet, but she hadn't heard him leave. She found him stretched out on the large bed asleep in the other bedroom. Meg approached silently holding the candle. He was still fully dressed with the exception of his shoes and the mask. It lay on the bedside table. Erik rested on his side, concealing his disfigurement. Meg blew out the candle, careful not to wake him.

She just barely touched the bed when Erik jumped up in a panic and exclaimed, "Who are you?" His voice was angry and threatening. In the darkness Meg screamed and started to cry, covering her mouth instinctively. "Meg?" She was so terrified, she couldn't respond. "In the name of all that's holy, don't ever do that again! I sleep alone!" He'd never used that tone of voice with her before and it wounded her as though she'd been struck.. She sobbed, hiccuping as she fought for control. Instantly, he was standing beside her pulling her into his arms. She stiffened and muffled a cry behind her hands. "Don't cry. I'm sorry. Stay here." He eased her down so that she was sitting on the bed. "I'll light the lamp." In moments the room was cast in a soft glow. The mask was in place.

Erik approached her carefully. He wasn't as shaken as she, but still, he was visibly affected. He was taking deep breaths, trying to calm his own nerves. Meg couldn't even look at him. She was embarrassed and confused. If she'd thought it out, she would have known that he was unused to being around people. While asleep, he was especially vulnerable.

"Come." He lifted her into his arms and carried her to her own room. He set her gently on the bed. She was still shaking, though less violently.

"I'm...sso...ssorry." She hiccuped. Erik handed her a handkerchief from the top drawer of the bureau.

"Don't be. I should have told you. I only intended to rest for a moment while you finished your bath, but I fell asleep sooner than I expected. It was a shock to find someone else in the room." He drew back the duvet and moved her beneath the cover. "We've both had a long day and a shock. Go to sleep."

"I c...can't." Meg stammered. She was trembling still.

Erik signed involuntarily and sat down on the other side of the bed, stretching his legs out before him. "Do you need a bedtime story or a lullaby?" He teased her gently. She looked at him without answering. She wasn't a little girl anymore, but she would rather listen to a bedtime story from Erik than be left alone in the dark at the moment.

Erik started to sing. It was a soft, sweet ballad of a maid who waited long and lonely years for her sailor lover to return from the sea. It was a sad tale with her still waiting in her old age, but as she died she looked up and called his name with undisguised love and joy. Her angel love had claimed her at last. Meg blinked the tears away, but she no longer cried for herself. She cried for the lonely old maid and her sailor lost at sea.

"I can see that didn't help much." Erik said, stroking her hair.

"It was so sad." Meg agreed.

Erik sang another song. This time, he sang in German and Meg could only a catch a few familiar phrases. Without the words to distract her, she was eventually lulled to sleep by Erik's perfect tones.

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Madame Giry gasped in horror. "This is insanity! Surely it is a mistake." She held a copy of the morning paper. "I suppose it is my own fault. I should have gone to the party. It never pays to be stubborn. I should think Madame Fairmont would have said something. But, of course, she is little more than a child herself. If Raoul and Christine hadn't shown up immediately after the party, we wouldn't even have known she was abducted until the paper came out this morning. It is too bad the Raoul had to return to London so suddenly."

"Adele, Meg is a sensible girl. We do not_ know _if she had done as the paper says. But, even the police aren't calling it an abduction." Clair assured her gently.

"But how _do _we know what she had done? She isn't here to say one way or the other. For the last thirty-six hours, I have been sick with worry. How could she do this to me? I'm going to have a word with Madame Fairmont. I do believe that she was in on this little incident." Madame Giry declared.

"I know why you're upset, but you didn't really want Meg to marry Delvoix. If she indeed has eloped with a secret lover, at least she is happy and safe. It seems that you committed a similar act yourself once. You must forgive me, but I find the ordeal far more romantic than scandalous."

"I find it scandalous! Who would have done such a thing? Oh dear..." Madame Giry cried out weakly and crumpled in a chair, staring into space.

"Adele? What is it?" Clair inquired concerned.

"Surely my worst fears are realized! She is with Erik!" Madame Giry conceded with a heavy sigh.

"Who is he?"

"He is someone from the opera."

"Then it can't be as bad as all that, unless he is dangerous." Clair tried to be cheerful.

"I really don't know what he'll do. He is unpredictable."

"Would he harm her?"

"I don't think so. I'm not sure of what it is that worries me most." Madame Giry's voice trailed off in uncertainty.

"I think we should call upon Madame Fairmont and inquire of what she knows about all this."

Clair need not have even said as much for the doorbell rang that instant. It was Madame Fairmont wearing a rich navy dress of the newest fashion. Her hat was also the latest style and boasted a great plume of ostrich feathers dyed to match.

Lily burst in upon them, as soon as Hannah opened the door to parlor, smiling pleasantly and embraced Madame Giry as though she was an old friend. "Oh, Madame Giry! Isn't it wonderful?" Lily sat on the plush settee without a moment's hesitation and faced the other women, open and friendly.

"What is it that is so wonderful? My daughter has been kidnaped. I have been worried sick. Now tell me what is so wonderful." Madame Giry eyed Lily coldly.

"No! She has not been kidnaped. She is married to the Marquis de Leon. I just found out about the wedding myself this morning." Lily announced.

"No!" Madame Giry and Clair exclaimed in unison.

"The Marquis de Leon?" Madame Giry almost whimpered the name. "It is the same man who offered Michelle a position as a housekeeper at his county estate. Tell me, Madame Fairmont, does the Marquis have a first name?"

Hannah brought in tea and apricot tarts for the three women.

"Meg called him Erik. He introduced himself to me as the Marquis de Leon. We unknowingly invited him to the party!" Lily share the information with unconcealed delight. "I saw a most imposing figure of a man enter the house and I just knew he was someone special. He had such grace and presence that I fairly swooned. It was a masque, so I did not get to see his face, but I think the eyes are the most important feature. I am a witness that he has kind eyes." Lily looked heavenward and sighed. Dimples appeared on Lily's delicate cheeks and her eyes sparkled with enchantment. Clair sighed, placing her hand on her chest in almost reverent agreement.

"How do you know they are married?" Madame Giry demanded, placing her hand to her stomach. She thought she was going to be sick.

"I was told to send Meg's belongings to the Marquis' residence. He told me himself that he was taking Meg away. You see, Meg was so unhappy. She did not believe that Erik would come. She despaired of her true love. But, I told her that if it is meant to happen, love will always find a way. So, I was thrilled beyond belief when he showed up at the party. Don't you think that it is the most romantic event?" Lily's question was directed at Clair, who nodded, enthralled with the whole scenario. Madame Giry was obviously not feeling the same enthusiasm.

"I was just dying from curiosity so I paid a visit this morning to the marquis' residence. And, I met his grandmother. She is a dear. I think you would just love her. She loves Meg, you know." Lily continued. "Now that the happy couple are away, I think the old dear would love company..." Lily trailed off deliberately.

"Erik has a grandmother?" Madame Giry asked doubtfully.

"Oh yes. Her name is Eustacia. She lives right here in Paris. I must say, the house is divine! I am almost jealous of Meg. The house is so elegant and modernized!"

"I hope Delvoix won't be trying to exact some kind of revenge." Clair suggested the possibility hesitantly.

"Evidently, this isn't first time a fiancé of his has come down with a case of nerves and jilted him. He is so embarrassed, the less attention he draws to himself the better." Lily offered in way of comfort.

Lily stopped to let her news sink in for a moment, then she asked, "Did you say Michelle was offered a housekeeping position at the Marquis de Leon's country estate?"

"Yes, she left two days ago with Garrick, a young man employed by the marquis." Clair supplied.

"That was before we knew that Erik was the Marquis de Leon. If I had known, I would have never let her go, " Madame Giry said stubbornly. "As it was, she fairly jumped at the chance to go; said she needed to get away from Paris."

"Does Erik's grandmother know he abducted his bride from her engagement party?" Madame Giry inquired sternly. Lily opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again quickly, giving more thought to her response.

"I don't know if she does but she will." Lily said looking away for a guilty second. "I'm sure she reads the paper."

"I, for one, don't like having my family's affairs published for all the world to see. I don't supposed Eustacia does either. We must stop the papers from printing anymore of the story." Madame Giry said reaching for some control of the situation.

"I don't think you have to worry too much about that." Lily leaned forward conspiratorially. "I hear that Edgar Quentin is being accused of cheating his business partners out of their share of the company and that to get even, Maynard Harvey seduced Edgar's daughter, Susannah. By tomorrow, the papers will be able to print nothing else."

"Oh!" Clair gasped. Madame Giry fixed Lily with a disapproving stare. Lily sensed she'd over-stayed her welcome. She cleared her throat and smiled, her dimples brightening her look with irresistible charm.

"I must be leaving and thank you for the tea." Lily said, though a cup hadn't touched her lips. Lily left quickly though not rudely. Moments later her perfume lingered in the air and the impact of her words weighed in like a fog. Clair remained silent, absorbing the details of Lily's disclosures.

"I think Stuart had better get home from Cambodia and see to it that Lily is occupied with a couple of children, so that she can mind her own business." Madame Giry commented tightly.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Dear Readers, **

**I am so sorry for taking so long to update. My computer crashed and I lost the first draft of chapter 18. Not only that, school started last week and I had to get ready to teach first grade. Also I have had a distinct lack of inspiration. Hopefully you will enjoy chapter 18! I hope you didn't give up on me and stop being interested in our story. gasp moan choke sob! **

**Love ya' lots! Shye Mareck **

The sun was setting in a pink and purple sky when Erik and Meg stopped to view the chateau in the distance. "There it is." Erik said bringing his horse to a stop. Meg gazed upon the house which was to be her new home. The gray stone structure was nestled in a remote little valley. Erik seemed eager to get home and urged his horse into an easy gallop. Meg followed. She was still unsure of what to expect. As they approached the house Meg could see the warm glow of candlelight in the widows. Erik had told her about Garrick, Francois and Patsy already being at the chateau. She was almost sorry they would not be alone a little while longer.

The last four days of travel had left her weary, but more importantly she had been able to spend time with Erik. She cherished each moment shared with him. He could make her laugh and comforted her gently when she cried. Instinctively, she knew it was too good to last. He'd talked a little about the time he'd spent in Persia.. Meg caught his far away look and the way he closed his eyes as if he were trying to forget. He was much more willing to talk about India and the people of the Punjabi tribe who had treated him with distant curiosity at first, but eventually came to respect his intelligence and abilities.

They stopped at the front of the house and Erik dismounted. Meg noticed a change in him instantly. It was hard to describe exactly, but he seemed like he was waiting for her approval. Meg smiled at him. The house was impressive from the outside. Meg decided that she didn't care what it looked like inside. It was Erik's home and he'd made her a part of his family. Aside from that, it was bound to be interesting. Although she hadn't thought about it on a conscious level, she'd been prepared to live with him in exile if need be.

Erik reached up and helped her dismount. Though her feet were firmly on the ground she kept her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes, trying to read more into his soul than he was willing to share with her. "Welcome home, Madame." He said, searching her face for her own veiled thoughts. A shadow of uncertainty flickered across his brow. Meg raised herself up on her toes and kissed him. Their silent communication was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and Garrick's shout of 'They're here!' Garrick was quickly followed by Patsy, Francois and Michelle, balancing Bethaleigh on one hip.

"May I introduce to you the Marchioness de Leon." Erik said bowing grandly. His announcement was met with stunned silence. Garrick finally let out a whoop and a holler. Patsy clapped and laughed. Francois beamed and clapped also. Michelle laughed.

"Michelle?" Meg gasped and rushed forward to embrace the girl. It was so good to see a familiar face. Meg was introduced to Francois. He wiped his large hands on his wide apron before shaking her hand. "I'm so very pleased to meet you, Francois, Erik has spoken of you with such fondness. It is good you are here. He is fortunate to have such a loyal friend."

"He is more fortunate to have a lady, such as yourself." Francois countered pleasantly.

"Garrick, help me with the horses." Erik commanded grimly. Meg looked at him, surprised at his tone. No one else seemed to notice Erik's sharpness, unless it was Garrick, who sprang into action and took the reins of both horses. Francois, Patsy, Meg and Michelle went into the house.

Erik headed deliberately for the stables. Garrick followed with the horses.

"Why is Michelle here?" Erik demanded, when the boy caught up with him.

"I thought you said to get someone to do the housekeeping, M'sir. I went to the House of Clureoux to see if Meg was available. But, of course, she wasn't. Michelle said she needed a job. She almost begged for the position." Garrick started to explain.

"You what?" Erik exploded.

"She said...she needed a job." Garrick stammered.

"Not Michelle. Meg. Why were you going to offer Meg the job?" Erik forced the words out while fighting for control. He wanted to knock some sense into the boy.

"I'm sorry, M'sir, but I thought that she wouldn't be frightened by the mask. You said something about getting someone who wouldn't be put off by it. I thought she would be the right sort for the job. How was I supposed to know you were going to marry her?" Garrick hurried to defend his actions.

"Michelle and Meg are ballerinas. What made you think of them?" Erik redirected the conversation.

"They are women." Garrick shrugged with palms out. "Women clean."

Erik stared at the boy, unbelieving. Now wasn't the time and place to educate the boy on classes and social structure. "Michelle didn't need to work. She was provided for." Erik argued. He was still unsure of Garrick's story.

"M'sir, she said she needed to get out of Paris, though she didn't say why. I thought perhaps she would be safe here, in case she is in some danger. I'm sorry if I have done wrong." Garrick was becoming distraught. He hastily filled two buckets with oats and put them where the horses could eat.

"Not wrong, Garrick. I am not pleased that she is here. She has a baby. How will she have time to tend a house if she is tending to the baby? I can see that you didn't think this through." Erik began removing the saddle from his horse. Garrick took the saddle from the palomino and began brushing her down.

"I will help with the baby, M'sir. Please, do not send her away." Garrick said. A pleading look came over him.

"You should be more concerned with your own situation." Erik scolded.

"I am, M'sir. But I'm trying _not_ to think of my own sorry condition. I am ever grateful to you for the way you and Meg nursed me back to health. I have forgotten none of it. If you see fit to dismiss me, I will understand. I am in your debt, M'sir." Garrick stopped brushing the horse and waited for Erik's response.

"I have invested too much in you to turn my back on you now. I suppose I wasn't thinking straight at the time I suggested that you get a housekeeper." Erik paused then looked straight at the boy, "Also, I should have never spoken to you as I did. Don't speak of this again. If Michelle needs some time away from Paris, she is welcome here." Erik said, and finished brushing down the horse.

It wouldn't do for Michelle to know that the presence of her and her child unsettled him. He'd never been around children and it worried him that the baby would be frightened by the mask. He really didn't want to be in the same room with the child, nor did he want to have to avoid her in his own house. What experience he'd had in the company of children was not pleasant. Mostly they'd been frightened, but there had also been the curious and the cruel ones.

Erik wondered about Michelle's reasoning for wanting to leave Paris, but he wasn't about to initiate a conversation with her about it. He had a hard time believing she would be in danger. But, there were other reasons for a girl in her situation to want to leave the city where she was violated.

"M'sir? Is there anything more for me to do?" Garrick asked, bringing Erik's thoughts back to the boy. The horses were put away for the night and it was getting too dark to see.

"No, I'll be along later." Erik told him. The boy left and Erik was alone. He needed time to think.

Meg looked out the window. It was too dark to see anything, but she looked anyway. Erik was out there, somewhere. He had not returned in several hours since putting the horses away. Meg worried, though she tried not to. He had not even come into the house since they'd arrived. Francois had served a delicious meal, but at the threat that it would be ruined if they waited, Meg told Francois not to wait. It would serve no purpose to have everyone else going hungry while Erik brooded. She had learned that he needed his time alone. After so many years without human companionship, he couldn't avoid being distracted by the presence of another.

Meg tried not to be offended. She knew intuitively the others felt it too. Each one was wondering if it was he or she that drove Erik away. Garrick had been especially quiet at dinner. Meg didn't want to embarrass him by asking about it. After dinner, Michelle tended to Bethaleigh, feeding her and getting her ready for the night. Francois, Patsy and Garrick gathered in the kitchen to clean up after the meal and enjoy together what remained of the evening. Eventually they retired and Meg was left alone.

Erik's room was on the second floor. There was a room adjoining his, but he had turned it into his study. There was a smaller room across the hall. Meg had claimed it earlier for her own. It had double hinged glass doors doubling as the only window facing the west and opened out on to a small balcony. She was looking out that window now in the vain hope she might see her husband.

She didn't know that he was looking at her silhouette in the window from the garden below and feeling a swell of pride that she was his. He waited until she doused the flame of the lamp and athletically climbed the trellis up to her balcony. He was in the mood for a little sport. He looked forward to his little adventure with roguish delight. Once safely on the balcony, he quietly opened the door and stepped carefully inside. It was a moonless night and not so much as a spark glowed in the little room. He moved forward slowly reaching out for a stable object that would give him a clue to his precise location within the room. His hand came in contact with something soft; at the same moment a scream pierced the air.

"Darling, it's only me." Erik said and Meg screamed again. "Shh...you'll wake the entire household." Erik reached for her again, but she was gone. Seconds later her heard the sound of a match striking. The flame flared brightly, revealing Meg in her nightgown and lighting a candle. She was trembling and could barely bring the flame to the wick. Once the candle was lit, she looked at him. Her eyes were dark with fury. Erik laughed softly. She gasped.

"How could you!" Meg cried in disbelief.

"Oh, but it was your idea, my dear. I have been waiting for the right moment to frighten you out of your wits." Erik answered smoothly.

"You are hateful...and...and cruel." Meg accused, still shaken.

"No, I'm being romantic!" Erik argued, laughing, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

"Where on earth have you been? I've been worried about you!" Meg stated indignantly.

"What on earth for?" Erik moved closer, standing so near that Meg felt the vibration of his energy, but he did not touch her. Meg almost backed away from the intensity of his presence, but her knees felt like they had lost their ability to hold her.

"You were gone for so long...I thought something might have happened to you," Meg said. Her reasoning sounded ridiculous as she said it.

"What would happen to me?" Erik didn't retreat and neither did she. Her throat was dry. She licked her lips, trying to restore some moisture.

"I don't know. I just missed you. That's all. We were holding supper for you, but you didn't show up. I told Francois not to wait."

"You did the right thing. I just needed time to myself."

"Why? Did I do something wrong?" Meg asked.

"No, of course not. It's nothing for you to worry about." Erik said, his voice resonating richly through out the room.

"But I am your wife. If I am not allowed to be concerned with your whereabouts, then I should just as well be married to a stranger." Meg moved away then.

"But, you are married to a stranger. I confess that I do not know how to behave as a married person. If you will tell me what you expect, I should try to accommodate you." Erik spoke quietly. She went to him. In his eyes, she witnessed a sadness, which he quickly hid behind a different kind of mask.

"Talk to me, Erik. Tell me what it was that drove you away." Meg pleaded.

"I was not driven away, as you so dramatically put it. I had some things on my mind. I think I'm still entitled to my own thoughts. What is it that makes you want to pry into my mind?" He turned away, putting a little distance between them.

"I love you and I care about the things you care about." Meg answered. Erik stiffened. Her revelation echoed profoundly in his ears, but he ignored the obvious reply.

"Then do not insist that I share my concerns. If you want to help, just be there. It is more than I have dared expect that someone would be there to hear my thoughts, but I find that I am not inclined to discuss everything. And some things are not worthy of discussion." Erik said with finality. Meg did not push the issue further. He did not hear her approach, but she was suddenly standing next to him. She reached out and stroked his arm. Erik turned to her and pulled her close, enveloping her. His chin rested on the top of her head. Words seemed useless between them. They would communicate through touch and emotion for now. If anything needed more, it was going to have to wait.

Early the next morning, Erik followed the aroma of fresh brewed coffee and found Francois in the kitchen. His friend greeted him by name and proclaimed a beautiful day ahead.

"How did you know it was me?" Erik asked surprised that Francois would know who approached.

"I can tell by your footsteps. Yours are heavier than any of the others, but you also approach with caution. Why is that? For one who seems so sure of himself in some ways, you hesitate in your own house. It doesn't make sense to me. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, I would, thank you. And, would you forgo the psychoanalysis? It's rather early for destroying the remaining day." Erik scowled.

"I beg your pardon, of course, but I wasn't analyzing your psyche, just your footsteps. It would seem, though, that a hit bird flutters." Francois poured a cup of coffee with the expertise of a seeing man.

"You assume too much." Erik sat down on a chair next to the table. Francois sat opposite him and poured his own coffee. "But you are right in a small measure about my hesitation. I am not accustom to living with other people. I don't like the possibility of surprising someone. But even less, do I wish for one."

"You are not serious. If you do not enjoy surprises, why did I find Patsy, the woman who I loved so many years ago, was in your care? Where did you find her?" Francois asked, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. It was Erik's turn to be surprised.

"Surely...I did not know. She has been living..." Erik stopped. There was so much that Francois did not know about him. Erik had never shared his the whereabouts of his own living quarters. For all Francois knew Erik had always been the Marquis de Leon. Now didn't seem like the time to enlighten him. "I found her on the street. She was being tormented. I swear; I did not know who she was other than a homeless person. Certainly, I didn't know she was your lost love. You said your lover married another. Patsy has not mentioned a husband. In fact, I know very little about her. Are you sure she is the one?" Erik was not entirely convinced. Francois would not have known her by sight. He would have had to depend on her voice to identify her. Her voice could have changed over the years.

"Yes, I'm sure." Francois said flatly.

"How can you tell?" Erik asked doubtfully.

"If you were just to hear the voice of one you loved after twenty years of separation, would you recognize her?" Francois spoke softly. Erik didn't answer the question. Would he recognize Christine's voice in twenty years? Yes, he thought, he would. But her voice was her trademark. Would he recognize Meg by her voice, if he were to suddenly become blind? Yes, and he would recognize just her scent, her touch and the sound of her breathing. All his senses would be on instant alert in just her presence.

"She doesn't seem altogether. I haven't been able to get any straight answers from her about her former life. Although, she did say that her family died of small pox." Erik said, speaking of Patsy. His own love life was not up for discussion.

"Yes, they did. That was why she was forced into a marrying a complete stranger. I was not in a position to support her at the time, so I did nothing. I can tell that she is in a strange condition. She does not seem to recognize me. I suppose I have changed, but she is still a young girl in her mind. It is almost as though she rejected some harsh reality and is suspended in a dream state."

"If she is indeed your long lost love, how old would she be?" Erik asked.

"About thirty-seven. She is five years younger than myself."

"Where is her husband?"

"His name is Eugene Quincy. I only know that he lived in Paris, and was a widower with two small children." Francois supplied.

"I get the impression from Patsy that she had been homeless for several years. I doubt that her husband is still looking for her, if he ever was." Erik said. He had no intention of trying to find the man. Patsy was better off where she was. A vivid picture of Meg being married to Biagio Delvoix came to mind and Erik felt his chest tighten. It would have been torture for him if he had not acted as he did. Francois' deep regret in not fighting for Patsy had haunted him all these years. Erik did not need anymore regrets in his life.

Erik heard Meg approaching. She was talking curiously soft and sweet. It took a moment too long for him to surmise the reason, when she entered the kitchen carrying Michelle's baby. Erik almost jumped with the shock of seeing the infant. Even more disturbing was seeing Meg holding the baby with such tenderness and quiet joy. She smiled, and stepped toward him.

Erik rose quickly and excused himself. Meg looked after him in hurt anticipation. She obviously wanted to show him the baby, but he didn't want to see it. It was a natural gesture, he guessed, for her to want to show the infant to her husband. Women were, by nature, attracted to all babies, he thought, even ones they didn't give birth to. It was also an opportunity to gage the response of the man in her life would have to a potential child. Erik failed the test and he knew it.

Out in the cool morning shade, he wondered how long he would be able to avoid the subject of children, his and Meg's as well as Michelle's child. He tried to analyze what scared him the most. He wondered if it was jealousy that made his throat tighten and his mouth go dry. No. It wasn't jealousy that stirred him when he saw Meg holding the baby. Guilt, perhaps, that he didn't want children? Even more obvious was that he had done nothing to prevent the possibility. How would he explain his actions to Meg if he did such a thing. The thought of denying himself the pleasure of her favors did not appeal to him either. They hadn't discussed children. Meg could already be with child.

Erik tried to envision himself in the role of father. It was then that his greatest fear manifest itself in his mind. He was afraid his children would be ashamed of him. His own mother was ashamed. Mothers routinely loved even the homeliest child, whereas his mother covered his face with a mask. He didn't know how to be a parent. The idea that he could scar a child for life with his ineptness clouded his vison of parenthood.

However, he didn't doubt Meg's ability to be an extraordinary parent. She was of such a gentle spirit; even he sought her tender comfort. A child would do well to have her as a mother. It would be selfish of him to refuse her children. It was another issue in his marriage that he hadn't completely thought out.

Erik returned to the house a short time later for breakfast. He had missed supper the night previous and he wouldn't be doing himself any favors to miss another meal because of his cowardice. He'd just entered the parlor, when Meg approached him, asking if he preferred to breakfast in his study. He was suddenly under the impression that she was trying to buffer him. Was she that astute? Did she pick up on his reluctance to be in the presence of the child. He would not let her know of his fears. A man must be the strong one in a marriage, he thought righteously. To let his wife think or know of his fears was a sign of weakness. She must always know that he would rise to the occasion when necessary.

"Why? Is there a reason why I should?" Erik asked, softly challenging her to speak her of her concerns. Meg didn't show any outward reaction to his question. She merely nodded and proceeded to the breakfast room. Erik washed quickly. He didn't want to keep the others waiting. However, Meg was the only one in the sunny breakfast room. Erik looked around for Garrick, Michelle, Patsy and Francois. Meg looked at him with silent inquiry. He hadn't meant for her to catch his reaction.

"I thought we would have our breakfast together in here. The others are content to eat in the kitchen. They understand that we are still on our honeymoon, in a manner of speaking, and need time to ourselves." Meg stated tactfully. Erik regarded her with suspicious speculation, but sat down at the head of the table nevertheless. Meg poured tea and Erik lifted the gleaming silver cover to reveal steaming food. Francois was indeed a genius. The smell was enough to suggest it. The taste confirmed it.

The breakfast room was a cheerful room with white sheer curtains, a cherry wood table and eight chairs with the seats upholstered in a pink rosebud pattern. The walls were painted a warm creamy yellow on the upper portion of the wall. The lower part was paneled in white pine. A painting depicting a simple farm scene tastefully decorated the side wall. The painting's golden wheat, ready for harvest, blended pleasantly with the yellow wall. A small cherry wood hutch occupied the end wall. Black, austere wrought iron sconces, with thick white candles, hung on either side of the painting and next to the hutch.

Erik hadn't particularly liked this room at first. It was too jolly for his general mood. With Meg in the room, it changed. It was somehow warm and safe. She was wearing a pale blue day dress with cream lace covering the upper bodice and her throat. Her hair was combed up in an intricate looking twist. She looked as pure as the day he married her. It struck him oddly that he would think of it that way. Perhaps he expected his own dark existence to contaminate her.

"You're quiet." Erik commented, realizing that neither of them spoke. There was an undeniable tension between them. Erik was used to being alone and not speaking to anyone for untold lengths of time, but he felt her silence was unnatural.

"So are you." She replied wanly.

"But I'm sullen and generally bad-tempered. Don't tell me my influence is rubbing off on you." Erik teased gently. It pained him to see her so withdrawn.

"I've got a lot on my mind. Sorry if I'm poor company." She forced a smile.

"Don't hide it from me, Meg. Something is bothering you and if you are unhappy, how can I be at peace?"

"It seems like we've had this conversation before. But we've switched roles." Meg answered evenly.

"Are you giving me a dose of my own medicine? I should warn you that I am not as strong as you and it could kill me." Erik said in mock submission.

"You don't like children, do you?" Meg posed the question with a directness that was not unlike her, but it still felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Erik exhaled, taking his time to respond.

"I suppose deserved that. I shouldn't be so hasty to ask next time. But, since you brought it up, it isn't that I don't like children, but rather the opposite. They don't like me." Erik said curtly.

"How do you know that?"

"Please, don't expect me to relive it. I would much rather put it behind me." Erik stated emotionlessly.

"We must talk about it sometime. I may already be..." Meg trailed off. He knew what she meant even if she couldn't bring herself to say it.

"I know. I have already thought about it." Erik had eaten most of his breakfast, but he pushed what remained away. He couldn't eat when his stomach felt this nervous. A bead of sweat broke out on his brow and he felt clammy.

"Surely you knew it might happen." Meg said, an edge of fear in her voice. Erik stood and paced the room.

"I assure you I was thinking about everything else but that. Most of us are undoubtedly conceived in passion...not planning." Erik buried his face momentarily in his hands. When he looked again at Meg, she was crying silent tears. "I have upset you and I'm sorry. Try to understand, Meg."

"What am I supposed to understand? If I am already with child, am I to understand that you want nothing to do with it?" Meg sobbed now, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

"Of course not! I don't know exactly. Eustacia said the deformity wasn't hereditary, but how can I be sure? I cannot think of the torment the child would face to bear this mark!"

"I would love it anyway!" Meg declared passionately through her tears.

"How do you know that?" Erik demanded striking his fist upon the table, causing the dishes to jump and clatter.

"Because, I love you!" Meg cried out. She ran from the room then and Erik followed. She went to her room and shut the door, locking it before Erik could stop her. He almost began pounding on it, demanding that she open it, but remembering there were other people in the house stopped him. Instead he went to his room and locked his own door.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Meg stared at the blank page in front of her. She felt it a duty to write to her mother. After all that had happened in the past week, it was the least she could do to put her mother's mind at ease to a minor degree. Meg didn't really expect forgiveness anytime soon. Perhaps in the next forty years just before Madame Giry passed on, she would find it in her heart to forgive her daughter. Meg didn't blame her mother if she was angry. Madame Giry had known it wouldn't be easy to love Erik. She did her best to discourage the relationship. Meg wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing that she and Erik were barely civil to one another. Meg wrote, describing the house and gardens, Bethaleigh and Michelle. She only mentioned that Erik had taken pride in restoring the old house and the pleasure it gave him. She kept the letter on an upbeat note, careful not to let anything slip that she might have to explain later. The letter didn't include an invitation to visit. Meg didn't want her mother there...ever. Any visiting would be arranged for in Paris. It was a relatively short letter, considering all that had transpired over the past weeks.

From the small parlor, Meg could hear the sound of pounding coming from the basement. Meg hadn't been down there, since she arrived a week ago. But, she knew the pounding came from Erik working on a mysterious project. He didn't share it with her, though Meg suspected that he was finishing the basement room as a retreat for himself, as if there weren't plenty of lovely rooms in the chateau. For the past six days, he hadn't said two words to her. She knew he was angry, but not with her. His struggle came from within. He had to eventually come to terms with their marriage and the consequences of his behavior. Meg ached for him. There was nothing she could do, except to be patient.

Erik had another project that fascinated him for the moment. He'd performed his grape harvest just thee days before and now the fruit fermented in oak barrels. Erik anticipated a delicious dry wine from the mash to stock his empty wine cellar. Meg overheard Erik telling Francois about the wine, otherwise she would have not known of his intention to make wine. She continued to be surprised by his knowledge and willingness to experiment. There would never be a dull moment in his company. For the time being, however, the climate in the chateau was edgy and uncertain.

The others did not speak of Erik's foul temperament. Like Meg, they tried to be cheerful and patient. Garrick was obviously smitten with Michelle and the baby. He followed them around like a lovesick puppy, eagerly tending the baby when Michelle was busy. Bethaleigh was becoming more adorable each day and it was hard to resist her bright eyes and quick smile. She was a good baby, rarely disturbing the household with cries of distress or temper. Her chubby arms and legs were a source of pride for everyone, indicating good health and pleasant disposition. Francois and Patsy spent a great deal of time in the company of one another. Meg wasn't sure of what the connection was between the two but they seemed happy when they were together. Patsy became as giddy as a school girl when Francois teased her affectionately.

Ordinarily, Meg would have liked spending her time with Erik, but as it was, she was often alone. It had been that way since the day she arrived at the chateau. The few pleasant moments she'd had with her husband had been nothing like she expected, though she was still unsure of what exactly she did expect. In her dreams, she thought about nights spent in his arms. That hadn't happened yet either. He always left her after she fell asleep. In spite of her efforts to not feel resentful, it still bothered her. Every fiber of her being longed to go to him and be held safe in loving arms.

Meg was feeling so depressed, it was hard to see a future with Erik. If he did not pull out of his mood, she would go insane. A lump rose in her throat. Though it was still too early too tell for sure, Meg felt instinctively that she was with child. In reality, she hoped for it with all her heart. If Erik was as stubborn as Meg knew he could be, she may not have another chance to conceive. He deliberately ignored the risks of pregnancy those first few days after they were married. Meg knew it. He wasn't stupid, but neither was he completely immune to the natural desires that arise between a man and a woman.

Secretly, she wished that she could blame his lack of self denial on her feminine allure, but the truth was that he would have probably acted the same with any woman. It wasn't common in her nature to sell herself short, but her self-confidence was shaken considerably. She'd been the one to seek him out in her ambition to win him. Was it a grave mistake to believe that he would really love her as she did him? She was so confused. In reviewing the past week and a half of her marriage, Meg decided that she'd been too patient with Erik, allowing him to carry on in a nasty pout over something that he should have come to terms with by discussing the situation with her. Instead he was in the basement pounding away with a hammer, taking his frustration out on oak panel. That was about to change. Meg had no intention of giving up on her marriage so soon. Erik would have to face up to the fact that he had a wife who loved him and wasn't going to let him return to being a sulky recluse.

Erik had not resurfaced late into the evening, remaining in the basement hours after Garrick had taken dinner down to him. Meg anxiously paced in the parlor rehearsing, in her mind, the words she would say to him. She wanted to tell him how she felt without alienating him completely. Words to the effect that if he was determined to give her the silent treatment, then he should just tell her how long he intended to carry it out formed in her mind. She would mark it on the calendar and not expect anything until then, but when the time was up, he should be prepared to act human. She did not realize that she had began talking to herself until she felt an unmistakable presence. Meg looked up to see who it was. Her husband's large frame filled the doorway, blue eyes looking at her with bemusement.

"Was that speech meant for me?" Erik asked, his lips twitching in opposition to a smile. Meg blushed, every harsh thought evaporating in a surge of heat that rushed through her. There was something so powerfully male that drew her like a magnet. What was she so upset about? It was something important, she knew. It happened every time. She could not stay angry with him while in his company, heartbroken perhaps, but not angry.

"I...was... Yes, it was." Meg stammered.

"Preparing an ultimatum for me?" Erik spoke low, his voice rich and resonant.

"Well, not exactly, but it was of a similar nature." Meg admitted. It would serve no purpose to pretend that all was well.

"Do I get the whole version or just the dress rehearsal?"

"I don't know. I hadn't finished it yet, but I think you already know what it was about."

"Do I?" Erik stepped into the room, moving with a grace that almost caused Meg to forget to breath. He wore a mask of tanned leather, black trousers and one of his customary white shirts. There was the scent of wood mixed with perspiration and new wine about him.

"Are you suggesting you don't?" Meg recovered somewhat from the initial shock of finding him in the doorway.

"I got the part about marking the calendar for the date that I am expected to act human." Erik said flatly. Meg tried to gage his mood by his reaction, but he hid his feelings well.

"Well, your pouting has become tiresome. We can't live like this. I shall go mad if my own husband won't even speak to me because I may be carrying _his_ child!"

"Is that what you think?"

"What else?" Meg demanded.

"It was _you_ who ran from _me_. You locked your door against me. What did you expect me to do?"

Meg stared, speechless, unable to answer. "I...I don't know." She managed to stammer. Really, she hadn't thought about it like that, but then she remembered her own righteous indignation. "Forgive me if I over reacted to being told that our child may not be welcome." She retorted.

"You have an uncanny ability to rush to conclusions without all the facts. I admit that children have not been a priority with me. Neither has it been a priority to not have them. I never thought that it would become an issue. For that matter I never expected to be married. You ran out on me before I could fully explain that I do not intend to reject my own offspring regardless of what condition they may arrive in. Even in her sorry maternal efforts, my mother gave me life when she could have let me die, nursed me and protected me to her best knowledge. How could I do less? My concerns are my own. I won't burden you with them."

"Don't say that. I want you to confide in me, Erik. I regret my reaction. Truly, I do." Meg began to cry.

"Don't cry." Erik moved closer but did not touch her as she so wished he would. She wanted to be held close more than anything else at the moment.

"I can't help it. I don't understand why I am so weepy. I'm not usually this way." She sniffed.

"It has been a traumatic week. I confess, I too am weary of the contention between us and wish to be done with it. It is late. You should retire now so that you don't become ill." Erik gestured toward the door but still did not touch her.

She longed for the days when he would have simply carried her to her room and made love to her. Meg went upstairs to her room. Erik followed. She stopped at her door and looked expectantly at him. He carried a candle for lighting their way. Meg opened the door to her room and entered. Erik went in, also, and lit an oil lamp from the flame he carried. She wanted to ask him to stay but lacked the courage. If he wanted to, he would. He did not stay, though he paused at the door and fixed her with a look that challenged her in some way. "Goodnight, Madame," he said and closed the door behind him. Meg cursed softly.

Meg dressed quickly for bed and climbed beneath the coverlet, but sleep would not come. She tossed and turned restlessly. Minutes passed, though they seemed like hours, or perhaps hours had passed. Meg did not know. Her mind was alert and her body tense. After debating the idea for several minutes, Meg threw off the covers and jumped out of bed. She opened her door carefully as to not make a sound, but the hinges squeaked anyway. A faint glow shone from under Erik's bedroom door. Hesitating briefly, she tried the door knob. It was unlocked. For a moment, she was too surprised to continue. Surely, Erik would have locked it...unless he was expecting someone. Slowly, Meg opened the door.

The room was larger than her own. At first she did not see Erik and wondered if he had not gone to his room at all. Several lamps were lit and it would have been unusual for him to leave them unattended. Then a movement caught her attention as Erik stepped out of the shadows near a window and into the lamplight.

He was wearing a black satin robe, embroidered with many colors in a oriental pattern. It was open to the waist. Meg was unsure of what to say. "Your door was unlocked." She said for the lack of courage to say what was really on her mind.

"It's been unlocked since I brought you here. I only locked it once, but it was pointless since you had already locked yours. Our communication is a strange sort."

"I...I didn't know if I was welcome here. You told me once that you sleep alone." Meg said, realizing that she'd been holding her breath.

"I do. But, what kind of man locks his door against his wife? You caught me off guard once. Since then, I've had some time to regret the way I responded to you. I'll not treat you that way again. You have my promise." Erik spoke quietly. His voice held a timbre that drew her in closer to him though neither had moved. Something had changed. The air almost crackled with the electrical energy which flowed between them. Meg stepped further into the room after closing the door behind her. Her action seemed to satisfy him. His quick intake of breath parted his lips and for a moment neither could speak. Erik made the first move, by distinguishing the lamps. He went to put out the last one when Meg stopped him.

"No," she said softly. Erik looked at her in some surprise. "I want you to see me, know who I am." The words almost choked her, but they needed to be said.

"I know who you are, Meg. Do you honestly believe that I think of someone else?" He asked in astonishment, but dropped the hand which would have put out the light.

"I don't know, but I want to...need to know that you see me and only me. I know how much you loved Christine...still love her–."

"She made her choice. Don't let her interfere with what we have. I won't lie to you and tell you that I never think of her or that I don't love her. But it is a different kind of love that has evolved between you and I. It is unselfish and complete. For I do love you, Meg. You do not know how much it means to me that you came to me tonight. Each time I came to you, you were willing but I had to make the first move. At first I liked it that way. But when I thought you might be with child, I needed to know that it was something you would choose for yourself."

"I do want children. How could you think that I didn't?" Meg cried out softly.

"It was not just a matter of wanting children. I wanted you to want mine enough that you would accept that our children may be like me." Erik took a step backward betraying his doubt.

"Our children won't be like you, Erik. They will know from the moment they are born that they are loved. If they look like you, I won't let them hide behind masks. I want them to be proud of who they are."

"So you will be content with a pack of little gargoyles running around the place." Erik said, not yet convinced.

"Of course, I will." Meg said, laughing.

"What if they are ashamed of their father?"

"How could they be, if they are taught to love and are loved?"

"There are no guarantees." Erik countered.

"I know, but if you never take a chance, you have a guarantee of nothing."

"What a wise woman you are. Did you take your chances in marrying me?"

"Yes, you said as much yourself that we were barely more than strangers. You said I was infatuated. Of course, it was all true. I thought I was in love, but now I _know_ I am. Each day, I am more aware of you, how generous and caring you are–."

"Are you sure you're not the one thinking of someone else, now?" Erik cut her off, obviously uncomfortable with her words of praise. "You make me sound like a saint."

"Don't sound so disgusted. There are worse things than sainthood to compare to." Meg said in defense of herself.

"There are so many things that you don't know about me. If you did, you wouldn't be saying those things." Erik returned to the shadowy area near the window, where he'd been when she first came into his room.

"Try me. Tell me about it and see if I don't still love and respect you as my husband."

"No. There are some things that aren't meant to be spoken of. A man has to keep some secrets for his own sake. Don't take it upon yourself to disturb that which should remain buried in the past. There is nothing to be gained by it." Erik spoke with his back to her.

"I disagree. When some things are buried alive, they never die. They just haunt us til we are dead."

"Such profound wisdom in one so young. Where did that come from?"

"I don't know. I'm sure I heard it somewhere and it just made sense." Meg replied with a shrug.

"Perhaps it is true. But it is my burden. I will deal with it in time." Erik dismissed the subject. Meg wasn't so easily dissuaded.

"Please, talk to me. I will just listen and not judge. The sooner we can put some of these things behind us, the better our future will be." Meg declared stubbornly.

"You try my patience," Erik scolded. "I don't have to explain myself to you. You have spoiled the evening. Go to bed!" He strode past her quickly and opened the door, inviting her to leave against her will.

"No! I will not be spoken to as such. I'm your wife, not a servant or a disobedient child! What happened to you that is so terrible that you can't even speak of it?" Meg knew she was treading on dangerous ground, but she was tired of not knowing what haunted him. He was so easily pushed to the limits of his tolerance with so many things including her. She couldn't live the rest of her life wondering what it was that caused such quick temper and distrust in her husband. "I want to understand you, Erik, for both our sakes." Erik closed the door.

"How can you understand what it is like to live as a scourge upon the earth? What do you know about being marked so hideously that children and adults turn away in horror and pity!" Erik's voice rose in anger and passion. "Have you ever been locked in a cage and put on display for the world to see and mock! Can you even imagine it?" Meg recoiled in spite of herself. "I see not!" Erik faced her and drew closer as he spoke. "I killed a man when I was fifteen! He would have forced me into accommodating his perverse nature if I had not! Is this what you wanted to hear, Meg? Can you bear the sight of me now!" Erik shouted at her, but Meg forced herself to not turn away from him. She faced him without flinching. She would not show weakness, not now.

"Who was he?"

"My master. I called him master. The gypsies had another name for him. I do not remember what it was. But I didn't stop there. I executed political prisoners in Persia for the shah and his mother. I was their weapon of choice. I let them use me to intimidate those who opposed them."

"Were they innocent?" Meg couldn't help asking.

"No!" Erik shouted his response involuntarily. "They were power hungry bastards that didn't hesitate to take life anywhere it suited them. They deserved to die!" Meg resisted the impulse to argue with him. She'd told him she wouldn't judge.

"Did the shah mistreat you?" Meg wasn't sure why she asked that, but she'd heard stories about the corrupt nature of Persian political leadership and the brutal treatment of their enemies.

"No." Erik admitted. "It was his mother that would have destroyed me if she could. She saw me as a curiosity and a source of amusement. She took pleasure in the pain of others. As amusement for her and humiliation for me, she ordered a slave girl to become my consort with death as the penalty for disobeying. The girl chose death. It was never my idea. She was so young and beautiful. Her life was over because of the khanum enjoyed such power over the people in that country."

"Did you execute her?" Again, Meg had to ask the question. It was now or never, because once it was out in the open, Meg never wanted to speak of it again. It was better that she satisfied her curiosity now.

"I refused, as a matter of fact." Erik said watching her closely. "It was one of the things that made the khanum realize that she couldn't control me completely. It didn't settle well with her and it was shortly afterward that she plotted against me."

"What did you do?" Meg wanted him to keep talking, get it out, and put it behind him as quickly as possible.

"I escaped, traveled a bit to Russia, India and most of Europe. Eventually, I came home or at least home to France. I found the cellars of the Opera Populaire to be quite comfortable and private. You know the rest. I was a ghost, not a man...not human at all." He added wryly.

"I should have never said that." Meg said softly.

"Why? You spoke from the heart."

"I didn't mean it as such." Meg defended.

"I know you didn't, but it hit its mark, nevertheless."

"Don't make me an offender for a word, Erik. I have no doubts about your humanity. I couldn't love you as I do, otherwise." Meg said, closing the distance between them. Tentatively, she put her hand on his chest. His heart beat steadily beneath her palm, quickening suddenly as he reached for her, pulling her close and burying his face in her neck and shoulder. Meg caught the look on his face just before he did so. He almost frightened her with the intensity of the look, fiercely possessive and passionate. His hands caressed her through her thin nightgown, savoring the feel of her softness, claiming her as his own. Meg cried out softly from the pleasure of it. Erik pulled away and stepped back, searching her face for an explanation.

"Did I hurt you?" He asked, puzzled.

"No." Meg said, and smiled, blushing as she peeked at him from lowered lashes. He stared at her, unconvinced. Meg began to remove her nightgown. Erik watched, incredulous, but needed no other encouragement. Her gown lay in a satin pool about her feet. Meg may have imagined it, but she thought she saw gratitude in his gaze. For what, she was unsure, but it didn't matter. She saw, also, acceptance and love.

He kissed her, then gently lifted her and carried her to his bed.

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The air was cool and crisp, typical of early November. The snow had not yet fallen in the valley, but the peaks of the Midi-Pyrenees Mountains were white. Erik was in Paris attending to his duties as the Marquis de Leon. Meg coddled Bethaleigh who was cutting another tooth and announced her displeasure over the situation often. Michelle was weary of Bethaleigh's cries and grateful to Meg for tending her. The two women were having tea in the small parlor, when the sound of a carriage and horses alerted them to someone's arrival. Meg and Michelle looked at one another questioningly. Erik wasn't expected to return from Paris for several days yet. Who could it be?

Meg rose and went to the window. She watched as Lily emerged from the carriage followed by Darcy, Wendy and another woman Meg did not recognize. She was instantly thrilled and curious. Why had Darcy and Wendy accompanied Lily? Meg rushed out to greet her friend, carrying Bethaleigh with her. Michelle followed.

"Lily!" Meg exclaimed and hugged the young woman with one arm, while balancing the baby on her hip with the other one. "What a pleasant surprise. I'm so glad to see you."

"Oh, me too, Meg. I have been so curious about the Chateau de Bagen and your letters have just not been enough to quench my curiosity. I had to see you for myself."

"But, Darcy and Wendy, too? How did this happen?" Meg greeted the girls and the other woman with a welcoming smile. Lily hugged Michelle, who seemed unusually flustered.

"And who is this?" Lily smiled at Bethaleigh, who buried her face in Meg neck and observed the newcomer with somber eyes. "What a beautiful child," Lily directed her comment to Michelle, who looked at Meg with guarded suspicion.

"Her name is Bethaleigh." Michelle said.

"Such a lovely name. It is so good to see you again, Michelle. It will be such fun to talk about old times." Lily said warmly.

"Oh, this is Gemma." Lily introduced the woman, who looked to be in her forties. "She is your new housekeeper. I believe, she is Milton's sister and has been employed by Eustacia in the past. Her husband recently passed away and she came looking for employment. Eustacia sent her with me."

"Eustacia?" Meg gasped in surprise. "Erik.–."

"Erik already knows. He sent Darcy and Wendy, too. Darcy will be returning with me. Erik was insistent that I not return alone. Wendy will remain with you." Lily explained, seeming rather pleased with herself.

"I don't understand, but come in and warm yourselves." Meg said.

"I have been visiting Eustacia regularly, you see. I thought is would be a kind thing to do since you and Erik were here and the poor dear would be lonely for young company. I was right too, but things are better, now. Madame Giry has moved in to that grand old house to live with her. I think they are getting along splendidly." Lily spoke as she followed Meg into the house. Meg could hardly believe her ears.

"Mother is living in the house with Eustacia?" Meg asked in bewilderment.

"Oh, yes. She moved in a week ago. It was Eustacia's idea." Lily supplied.

"Oh dear, Erik went to Paris...I don't think he had any idea Mother would be there at the house." Meg sighed.

"I would have given my right eye to be there when Erik faced you mother, but alas, I missed it. I heard from Eustacia that it was a rather strained confrontation. I met Erik again and it was he, who suggested that I pay a visit before the snows come, and it becomes too unpleasant to travel. I can't remain more than a few weeks. Stuart will be returning from Cambodia, soon. Reggie too. I thought we could enjoy ourselves while our husbands are elsewhere. Women need other women in their lives. We just don't fare well without feminine company." Lily said conversationally.

Meg had the driver of the carriage carry Lily's luggage to her room. She hadn't been using it lately, certainly not in Erik's absence. She slept in his room each night, finding comfort in the familiar surroundings. The room was definitely masculine and elegant, so much like the man who furnished it.

Once everyone was settled in their prospective rooms, Francois announced dinner. He'd out done himself on behalf of the weary travelers. The roast lamb with vegetables and herbs was extraordinary.

After dinner, Meg and Lily sat before a warm fire and talked, sharing the events that had transpired since they last spoke. They laughed about Meg's sudden abduction, her spur of the moment wedding and the media gossip that followed.

"Where is Michelle?" Lily asked, suddenly.

"I don't know. I suppose she is taking care of the baby." Meg replied.

"She seems a little nervous and odd. Is she alright?"

"I suppose she has reason to be. Garrick evidently brought her here to be the housekeeper. It has been a hardship for her to try and do very much because Bethaleigh is so demanding. I have been doing much of the routine cleaning and laundry myself. I think Erik wanted someone else to do it now that...now that I'm with child." Meg finished.

"Oh, Meg! Such wonderful news. Is Erik as thrilled as I know you must be?" Lily inquired excitedly.

"He's nervous and very protective. He wouldn't let me travel with him to Paris, believing that it might harm the baby." Meg admitted.

"I think it is just adorable of him to be so concerned." Lily said, her eyes sparkling.

"Yes, but also annoying at times. He acts like I might break or something." Meg confided. "But about Michelle, it may have hurt her feelings when you said Gemma was our new housekeeper. It came as a surprise for both of us."

"I think I shall invite her in to chat with us. We must put her mind at ease. It would be terrible to feel replaced." Lily didn't wait for Meg's permission, but went immediately in search of the young woman. Meg was happy to have Lily visiting. She brought such charm and vitality to the chateau, Meg would be sorry when she left. There seemed a clear purpose in her actions to seek Michelle out. Meg hoped so. Michelle would do well to have an ally in Lily.

Lily returned shortly with Michelle, who appeared uncomfortable. Lily seemed to know just what to say to put the girl at ease.

"Bethaleigh is such a sweet baby, Michelle. I will try not to be jealous. You are a good mother to her. I will have to come to you for advice, when I have my own children. I haven't the foggiest idea of what to do with a child." Lily said with genuine expression. Michelle seemed to relax and smiled.

"I think being a mother is something that comes from instinct. I don't think there's a single book written on how to be a good mother, but most of us figure it out somehow." Michelle said, modestly, but Meg could tell that she was pleased with Lily's words of praise.

Erik returned with Garrick three days later as expected. The house was lively and Meg was pleased to have so many in her home. Graciously, she acted the hostess, although Erik was more often in the basement working or in his room. Meg was pleased to see that Lily's presence didn't bother him. She had wondered about it. But, she decided that Erik rather liked Lily. It would have been hard not to. She was thoughtful, warm and generous. Neither was she disturbed by the mask.

Time passed quickly for Meg during Lily's visit. Erik seemed pleased that Meg was enjoying herself. She loved him more for his thoughtfulness in inviting Lily to come to the chateau. But, Meg was more than a little surprised when Erik agreed to play the piano-forte for their entertainment one evening. Lily expressed her delight openly and declared Meg to be the luckiest woman she knew.

"How wonderful it must be to have such an exceptional talent in a husband." She said with feigned jealousy. "If Stuart doesn't return soon, I'm going to forget what he looks like."

"When will Stuart be returning?" Meg asked. She wasn't really feeling threatened by Lily but privately she was glad that the other woman was already married to Stuart, who undoubtedly took his marriage vows very serious. Lily was one of those women who would always be the center of attention when she was in the room.

"I'm not sure exactly, but within a few weeks at least. Since I'll be leaving for Paris tomorrow, I expect I shall arrive there before he does." Lily said easily.

The next morning, however, revealed a change of plan. Lily was preparing to leave when two riders were seen approaching the chateau from a distance.

Erik's mood was cautious. He advised Lily to wait to leave until the unexpected visitors were known. He told Garrick to greet them while the others waited inside. Meg knew he was unsettled by the newcomers. He paced like a caged animal in the main parlor, while Lily, Meg and Darcy remained in the small parlor. The visitors were ushered into the reception room and a very surprised Garrick announced the arrival of Stuart Fairmont and Reginald Dublan. It would seem that Lily's husband and brother were quite concerned with her whereabouts and demanded to see her.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Dear Readers,**

**I am sorry for taking so long to get chapter 20 posted. I really struggled with it. I hope you like it. Thank you for the encouraging reviews. You're all very important to me. Cheers, ShyeMareck. **

Erik was none too pleased to be in the position he found himself at the moment and left Lily to face her husband and brother alone. Meg knew he was embarrassed, but there was nothing she could do, but remain calm, so she prepared to greet Stuart and Reggie as the Marchioness de Leon. She would behave as the title required of her. Stuart was a marquis, also, and it would never do for him to be treated as anything other than an honored guest in the home of the Marquis de Leon. How would Erik react to her offering the men refreshment and sleeping accommodations if need be? She told Garrick to find Erik and give him the message that his presence was required immediately by his wife. In the meantime, she would act the perfect hostess.

Meg went with Lily to welcome Stuart and Reggie to her home. The men still wore the uniform of the French military. Meg greeted the men kindly. Stuart bowed low over hand and murmured an appropriate response.

Reggie did not come forward to greet her but nodded briefly, adverting his gaze. A stab of guilt struck Meg in the heart and she regretted her partial involvement in the letters which were sent to him in her name. It was a disturbing situation she found herself in and the only way out of it was to face it head on and try to maintain some dignity. She wondered where Michelle might be at the moment. Having no real knowledge of what Michelle had written to him, Meg was at a double disadvantage. She wanted to talk to him and explain, but perhaps it would only add insult to injury for her to justify her actions.

Stuart had fixed Lily with a stare that surprised Meg. It would seem that he was less than pleased with his bride, while Lily pretended not to notice. She kissed him on the cheek. "Oh, Stuart, darling. I didn't expect you so soon. I have been enjoying myself here with Meg so I wouldn't be so lonely while you were away." She soothed.

"I am glad to find you well," he replied, stiffly. Meg sensed that Stuart's initial reaction would have been much different if she were not in the room. Truly, she would have rather been somewhere else, as well. "How do you do,...Mademoiselle, pardon me, Madame?" He corrected himself, bowing. "I thank you for entertaining my wife in my unavoidable absence." So Stuart knew she was married, which meant that Reggie knew, also, but what else did he know?

"Welcome, Monsieur de Fairmont," Meg said. "May I offer some refreshment. Tea will be served soon. Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable."

"I apologize for the sudden nature of our arrival and truly appreciate your hospitality, but I think we will be leaving just as soon as possible." Stuart replied, politely.

"I insist that you take refreshment with us. You must be weary from your journey." Meg said graciously, and cast Lily a questioning glance.

"Stuart, it is unnecessary to leave immediately. You are exhausted." Lily said, her voice soothing and calm. "It is pleasant outside, walk with me. Reggie too, I have so much to tell you."

"I should think so." Reggie agreed and cast an odd look in Meg's direction.

"I shall have tea ready, when you return." Meg said, eager for escape. She didn't know how to interpret the look Reggie gave her. Disdain, mistrust, or hurt? Perhaps a mixture of all three. Meg knew, deep in her heart, that she deserved his ire, but there was something else about him that was different from the last time she'd spoke with him. There was an edge of anger and raw energy that emanated like an undeniable force from him. He eyes were dark and narrowed coldly. Meg shivered. What had changed him from the boy who had so openly expressed himself to her? Another stab of guilt stirred her into action, and she left hastily to help Francois prepare tea for their guests.

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Out in the cool air, Lily walked between the two men. She took Stuart's arm for support, needing every little bit of help she could get. She knew Stuart was angry, expected him to be, but she also knew he could be a reasonable man, when it suited him. However, he didn't share her views on many things, such as playing matchmaker. When he found out just how much meddling she'd done in his absence, he may never speak to her again. Just the knowledge that she had been the honored guest of the man, known by some as the Phantom of the Opera, for the last two weeks would surely push him over the edge, and he would have their marriage annulled. Though Meg had never actually disclosed the information, Lily had concluded on her own the true identity of Meg's mysterious lover, some time after he'd arrived at the staged engagement party, masked and mysterious, yet natural and unpretentious. No other man or woman in the room carried off a disguise with such presence. He'd asked her to dance, and complimented her eloquently on the party. Lily thought she knew everyone in Paris worth knowing until he showed up that night. He was different and still somehow familiar, like someone from a fairytale.

Lily had heard fantastic tales about the infamous character known as the Phantom of the Opera. Meg had been a ballerina at the Opera Populaire during a time of rumors surrounding the Phantom and the connection seemed a likely one. Lily was pleased for Meg, but at the same time, concerned with the unconventional nature of the romance. Although Lily was a hopeless romantic, herself, there was a dangerous uncertainty in the relationship. In the vast rumors being spread about the Opera Ghost, there was the disconcerting thought that he was mad. After meeting him face to face, Lily no longer entertained the idea of madness, but she wanted to see for herself that Meg was not in danger or unhappy in her marriage.

It was ironic that she, of all souls, would be concerned with the condition of Meg's marriage when her own was a fragile thing at best. Stuart had left for Cambodia shortly after their wedding and now they were barely more than strangers. In their short courtship, Stuart had been attentive and kind. She really had no reason to doubt him, except that she didn't know the extent of which he would lose patience with her antics and carefree ways. Her mother often warned her that one day she would go too far with her little adventures and shenanigans and lose the confidence of those who mattered most. But of course, Lily's mother had never understood her daughter's desire to right the wrongs of the world.

"Would it be too much to ask, what the hell you're doing here?" Stuart spoke. He was clearly fighting for control of his temper, obviously hadn't believed her story about needing company. Well, it was only partially true anyway, Lily decided and forgave him.

"Don't be angry with me. I did it for Reggie and Michelle." Lily said, easily, though she disengaged her arm from his.

"Me and Michelle?" Reggie asked in genuine surprise.

"You wrote to me about Meg and how you were falling in love with her, but what you didn't know was that you hadn't been corresponding with Meg at all. In fact, Michelle has been writing to you all this time. Perhaps you remember her, Michelle Montague." Reggie shook his head. "She and I were in school together, though she is a year younger than me. You may have seen her, even if you don't remember." Lily and Stuart stopped walking when Reggie remained behind in stunned silence.

"I don't understand. Meg didn't write the letters? If you knew this, why didn't you tell me?" Reggie demanded, still in mild shock at the news.

"I thought that if you came here where Michelle is now, you wouldn't be able to turn your back on her so easily." Lily explained meekly.

"What are you talking about? I have been played for a fool. Of course, I will turn my back on the whole embarrassing situation. I must." Reggie turned away in disgust.

"But, when did you fall in love, Reggie? Was it after you went to Cambodia or before, when you were with Meg?" Lily asked, urgently.

"I don't know exactly. Meg is a very beautiful woman and I thought I was falling in love with her." Reggie admitted.

"But when did you really feel that you found the person who would mean more than life to you?" Lily pursued the subject. Reggie scratched his head in bewilderment.

"I think it was in Cambodia when I found myself looking forward to her letters. I lived to read her next letter. When I was ill with fever and I thought I might die, she wrote to me and her words were so thoughtful and she seemed to know my thoughts more than I knew myself. Her words healed me in some unusual way. It was strange how she could put into words just what I needed to hear at any given moment. I found myself confiding my innermost thoughts to her. I read her letters a hundred times each, drawing on her wisdom and faith. I really thought it was Meg, though." He said, clearly embarrassed.

"But it was Michelle who wrote those words, not Meg." Lily said, softly.

"I wouldn't have thought Meg would do this." Reggie confessed, grudgingly.

"She only asked for Michelle to help her write a letter to gently dissuade you, and didn't know she continued to write until it was apparent that Michelle was falling in love with you. By then, she didn't want to spoil it. You see, Michelle was in a rather delicate condition at the time." Lily looked away and gently cleared her throat.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" Reggie demanded with growing irritation.

"I will tell you, but you have to promise you will not get angry and go away without hearing the whole story."

"This is going to be a jewel, I suspect."

"First, you have to know that the poor girl has been disowned by her family and has no one except Meg and her family." Lily put up a hand when Reggie started to speak. "Listen first." She continued. "When Michelle was working as a ballerina at the Paris Opera, she was violated by a horrible man."

Reggie gasped. "He should hang!"

"He did." Lily sighed. "But, that is no longer an issue. She has a child, a lovely baby girl." Reggie was silent and Lily didn't know if she should interpret his silence as a good sign or not, so she continued. "Naturally, she is frightened of men and yet, for some reason, she felt that she could communicate with you."

"Not about this." Reggie stated, somewhat humbled.

"Well, don't hold it against her. I'm sure, she didn't want to burden you with her troubles."

"You said you came here because of Michelle and me. How is that?" Reggie asked without meeting her eyes.

"She is here, now. Of course, she has no idea that you know it was she who wrote to you."

"I found it strange that the letters ceased abruptly a few months ago, with no explanation. She may have become frightened when I wrote about coming home and the two of us becoming husband and wife." Reggie acknowledged.

"I think she came here so she wouldn't have to face you. It must be very difficult for her. Please don't turn your back on her."

"I don't know that I have an option. If she came here to avoid me, then I have no choice but to leave her be."

"But if you love her, how can you walk away without even trying to win her?" Lily cried in dismay.

"But you don't understand. I thought it was Meg and evidently she is married, so there is nothing for me to do but forget this whole unpleasant ordeal! Incidently, who is this person Meg has married." Reggie demanded. "I have never heard of the Marquis de Leon, until now."

"He only recently inherited the title and is most reclusive, but nonetheless, a very kind and generous man." Lily explained. "I must warn you, however, that he suffers from a facial disfigurement which he covers with a mask. If he is inclined to meet with you, I pray that the two of you do not embarrass yourselves by staring or remarking upon the mask." Lily spoke with disdain and mild contempt.

"I beg your pardon, Madame, but how can you underestimate your own husband?." Stuart returned, indignantly. Lily was sure now she had offended him.

"Or your brother for that matter." Reggie chimed in.

"Meg is a dear friend and I should never be able to show my face again if you were to react insensitively. If you are invited to remain for the evening, do not refuse. It would be a gross error in gentlemanly behavior. He may see it as an insult." Lily said in a cultured tone and realized, to her dismay, that she sounded like an exacting schoolmistress.

"I assure you, Madame, that you will have no legitimate complaint. However, your own behavior is less becoming, as I find myself in the precarious condition of taking instructions from my wife as though I were an errant boy!"

"I see that is time for me to leave the two of you alone." Reggie said, clearing his throat. "That is an interesting knoll I should like to explore. I won't be long." His words went unheard by the couple who stared at each other with wary interest. He left to investigate the knoll covered thickly with trees and brush.

"I see that you have been busy in my absence. When did you find time in your schedule to miss me?" Stuart asked, his voice heavy with implication.

"Don't be petty, Stuart. I have done nothing to dishonor you." She replied.

"In all your meddling, did you give a thought to how it might affect your family. My mother is horrified by your antics. Is it true that you sponsored an engagement party, and the bride-to-be was kidnaped by her lover in the midst of it all?" Stuart asked in mild alarm.

"Well, yes, actually but . . . but, it was Meg's engagement party and we . . . I mean I set it up to force Erik . . . or perhaps I should say, make him realize what he was going to lose if he didn't act. It is really hard to explain. You wouldn't understand." Lily looked away.

"Try me. I just might."

"It sounds silly, now, but the Girys lost their livelihood between the fire at the Opera Populaire and the war. They had mounting debt and it was necessary that Meg marry soon to save them from ruin. Erik was unwilling to declare himself. It must have been difficult for him to believe that someone could love him for himself. Meg was so unhappy and still she had to pretend interest in the many suitors who constantly proposed or made inappropriate suggestions."

"Let me guess. You staged a phony engagement so Erik, who I assume is the Marquis de Leon, would feel an urgency in proposing. Who was the unwitting character who played the jilted fiancé?"

"Biagio Delvoix."

"A wealthy man. I hope he doesn't exact some revenge. He must be humiliated." Stuart observed, without empathy.

"He actually managed to get himself engaged again, so I don't suppose he will want to revisit the experience."

"I don't suppose you had anything to do with that, also."

"Well, not directly. I just invited someone to the party who would be a sympathetic listener and be there to comfort him when he found that he was, again, a lonely bachelor." Lily confessed. "What happened after that was entirely between the two of them."

"I have surely arrived just in time to prevent another matchmaking adventure. From now on, I will be your only romantic project."

"You're not angry with me?" Lily asked with some surprise for she expected a severe scolding if nothing else.

"Of course, I'm angry." Stuart hid a smile. "I shan't dare to leave you again out of fear that I will return to find my wife has become a marriage broker or a notorious lady gambler. It is my own fault for leaving you alone, but I could scarcely bring you with me. Cambodia is no place for a woman."

"Do you mean they don't have women in Cambodia?" Lily feigned surprise. Stuart laughed outright.

"Not any like you. She would be burned at the stake for treason. Her husband would deny any knowledge and weep for her everlasting soul."

"You wouldn't!" Lily cried in horror. "I have not committed treason!"

"Not yet, but if I don't keep you busy with other duties, I can see you becoming the perfect international spy—."

"Oh, Stuart, that sounds so exciting!" Lily exclaimed, clapping her hands together with awe and intrigue.

"—But you will hardly have the time with so many children calling you Mama." Stuart continued, ignoring her exuberant outburst.

"I suppose I could give up my career as an international spy for the safety and well-being of our children." Lily sighed contented

"I'm glad to hear of it. I had wondered if you would be willing to become ordinary." Stuart eyes crinkled with humor. Lily knew he was teasing

"Never! There is nothing ordinary about being a mother, Stuart. Michelle, Meg and I will be mothers at the same time. It will be good to visit back and forth, celebrating holidays and birthdays together. Our children will be cousins." Lily smiled at the thought.

"Don't start meddling again. Leave Reggie and Michelle alone to decide for themselves what they will do." Stuart warned gently.

"Of course, my work is done there. I can't make them fall in love if they don't feel anything for one another. I just think they do and may need someone else to point it out to them, in which case, I will be available."

"You're hopeless." Stuart laughed

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Meg rarely went down into the windowless depths of the basement, but the circumstances required it. She found Erik sitting on a wooden crate drinking a glass of wine. On a bigger crate sat a bottle half full and a oil lamp. Several candles were lit as well, casting the large space in light and flickering shadows. The evidence of Erik's mysterious efforts stood near the crates, a large cradle of oak. For a moment, Meg forgot about Stuart, Lily, Reggie and everyone else. Wordlessly, she caressed the smoothly sanded wood.

"It's beautiful. How long have you been working on this?" She asked in sincere admiration.

"I don't remember when I started it exactly. I had some oak left over from renovating and I just started cutting and gluing. Before I knew what I had in mind, it began to look like a baby's bed. By that time, however, I think I knew about the baby. I'm glad you like it." Erik said, pleased.

"I like it very much, thank you." Meg looked at him closely, to determine if he was intoxicated.

"If you're wondering whether or not I'm drunk, the answer is: not yet."

"Erik, we have guests. I sent Garrick to find you, but said that you did not want to be disturbed. I have invited Stuart and Reggie to take refreshment with us and even stay for the evening if they wish to. Stuart and Reggie have traveled for days. It would terribly rude not to offer the basic of comforts." Meg was wringing her hands in frustration. "Stuart is a marquis. It would be doubly insulting not to honor him as our guest."

"By all means, make them welcome. Perhaps they would enjoy a bottle of this fine cabernet. I made it myself." Erik took large swallow. "Make my apologies, for I will not be available for entertaining."

"What am I to tell them? Should I say that you are ill and may be contagious?" Meg asked nervously.

"I don't care what you tell them."

"I hate to lie. Lily would know the truth and I would feel that she pitied me." She confessed.

"Why? Do you feel sorry for yourself?" Erik asked, watching her closely.

"No, but I would much rather have you by my side as host to our guests. I am not ashamed of the man I married and I would worry that it would appear that I was."

"Why do you care what other's think? I don't." Erik declared flatly.

"Perhaps I care too much, but only because Lily is a dear friend. It is important to me that our child has a full and happy life. This means that he or she will need friends of the same age and I was thinking that Lily's children and ours would be like family. It will be a lonely existence for our child if we discourage everyone who attempts to become part of our small social circle." She argued, careful to choose her words. Erik was rather unpredictable, and Meg was unsure of how he would respond to her reasoning. He was silent for several moments, staring into the flickering flame of the lamp.

"I will join our guests for dinner this evening and I will do my best not to destroy our child's future social connections." He said, finally.

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Reggie found the hike to the knoll longer that he'd expected. The dense trees and brush at the bottom posed some difficulty to get through, but beyond the thorns and thick berry bramble, the trees were tall with thick trunks. Birds of different species twittered cheerfully in the high branches. He had made a wise choice to visit the knoll with its quiet beauty. The smell of autumn was combined with woodland and earth to create an almost seductive scent. The leaves were turning color and several drifted downward lazily. His boots crushed the dried remains of summer noisily. A sudden flash of pale blue caught his attention. It was a dress...or better yet, a woman wearing a blue dress. She fled as he approached

"Mademoiselle! Wait! I mean no harm! Stop!" He called after her. She did not stop but ran faster, like all the devils in hell were hot on her heels. He had intruded upon her solitude and possibly frightened her. Reluctant to let her leave with the impression that he would do harm, he pursued. His long legs gave him the advantage in the race and soon he overtook her, planting himself in her path. She was breathing heavily and gasping for air, but still she dodged past him and ran down the slope to be free of him. Reggie watched in bewilderment, letting her go. It would serve no purpose to continue trying to reach her. Clearly, she wasn't interested in his attempt to redeem himself. He watched her run and saw that she stumbled, apparently twisting her ankle, because down she went, head over heels and straight into the thorns of the berry bramble at the bottom of the knoll.

Reggie quickly made his way down to where she tried to get up just to collapse again in pain. "Mademoiselle, I will not harm you. Let me be of assistance." He said firmly, dropping down beside her. She had thick, straight, black hair reaching just below her shoulders. She turned from him, so that he could not see her face. "What is your name?" He asked, puzzled by the girl's strange behavior.

"Go away!" She said, weakly and tried to rise yet once more. Reggie reached out to support her only to have his hands slapped.

"What have I done to endure such hostility? You're obviously injured, and I'm only trying to help." He said, offended by her disagreeable nature.

"You've done enough already. This is all your fault. If you had not chased me, I would not have fallen." Indignant from her bitter accusation, Reggie grasped her chin and turned her head so he could see her face. Her skin was pale, creamy and blemish free. Green eyes, fringed by thick dark lashes flashed angrily at him. Lips, pink and delicate as the most tender rosebud were just the right fullness and shape. Who was this woman?

"If you had not run, I would not have pursued you. Now, what is your name?" He asked, again. She turned away in response. "Let me look at that ankle." There was no point in making a contest out of whether or not she would reveal her name. "You could do yourself even more harm if you do not let me help." Reggie slowly reached for the woman's foot. She did not resist this time and allowed him to remove her shoe. Gently he touched her ankle and she flinched. "It is probably a nasty sprain and not broken." He said, rotating her foot slightly. "I did not mean to frighten you and I only wanted to assure you that you had nothing to fear. I apologize for my clumsiness, Bernice."

"Bernice?" The woman said, momentarily confused.

"Yes, you look like a Bernice and since you won't reveal your true name, I decided I would call you Bernice. Where do you live, Bernice? You will need some assistance getting home." Reggie rose and stood looking down at the injured woman. If she resisted, there was little he could do, otherwise, she would have to be carried to the nearest destination, the Chateau de Bagen. She gestured toward the chateau. "Well, that does make things a little easier. I thought I would have to carry you to the next village."

"Carry me?"

"Did you really expect to walk on that ankle? Once again, I assure you that you will be perfectly safe. I've carried things that weighed more for a much greater distance. I won't drop you, if that is what concerns you." Reggie let out an exasperated sigh. She had begun to tremble. Taking off his coat, he knelt down, put it around her and helped her get her arms through the sleeves. It was cool but not extremely cold, hardly enough to warrant the shivers that racked her body. "Put your arms around my neck so I may lift you." He instructed softly. She complied, though reluctantly, tears filling her eyes. The pain must be severe, Reggie concluded. What other reason would she have for crying so? Gently, he raised her into his arms and held her close to his chest. She rested her chin on his shoulder so that she did not look at him. She held her arms strong around his neck, aiding in the distribution of her weight. Navigating through the briars proved a challenge. The thorns tore his shirt and left a few deep scratches on his arms and sides, but his fair burden remained unscathed by the briars.

Once past the berry bramble and brush, Reggie shifted her weight to get a stronger hold. Now she was in a position to look into his face, but she kept her eyes averted. Reggie found her shyness oddly endearing. Most of the women in his acquaintance were either far to bold for his liking or put on the act of the timid coquette. This young woman possessed a natural and straight forward disposition and yet remained a mystery. It was clear that she didn't trust him and yet she allowed him to carry her back to the chateau. Somehow that unwilling trust flattered him, like he'd won a special confidence.

There was nothing familiar in her face, and still, he felt that he should know her. No man in his right mind would forget a face like hers, so it was unlikely they had met before. She demonstrated a unusual lack of interest in his identity. A improbable notion rattled in the back of his mind.

"How is the ankle?" Reggie asked for the sake of dispelling the unnatural quiet. If he could talk about something of general interest, he could take his mind of how soft her lips looked or how right she felt in his arms. She'd stopped trembling and seemed to relax a little. He'd given his word that she would be safe and yet if she knew the true direction of his thoughts, she would likely strike him and certainly never trust him again.

"It doesn't hurt much now." She said clearing her throat. "Perhaps I should try and walk, now. It isn't much further to the chateau."

"No, Bernice, it will only aggravate the sprain."

"There's no need to call me that."

"Until we get to the chateau so someone else can tell me who you really are, you will be Bernice." Reggie replied stubbornly.

"My name is Michelle Montague." She said, and waited for his response. He arms went slack for a moment. Michelle held on tightly as he shifted her weight to get a better grip.

"My name is Reginald Dublan." He finally managed to reply.

"I know." She said.


	21. Chapter TwentyOne

It was Lily who saw Reggie and Michelle first and came running to meet them with Stuart close behind.

"Oh, Reggie! Michelle! What has happened?" Lily approached with a confused mixture of concern, curiosity and pure delight. However, the less-than-pleased facial expressions of both Michelle and Reggie reduced her exuberance to deep concern.

"She has sprained her ankle and it would seem that I am, at least in part, responsible." Reggie announced with bitter irony. Michelle cast him a dark look but remained quiet.

"This is terrible!" Lily exclaimed and hovered anxiously as Reggie carried the ailing girl into the chateau. In a matter of moments, everyone was fussing over poor Michelle, who begged to be left alone and blushed at the tender attention she received. The injured foot was raised on a pillow as Michelle was gently placed on a plush settee in the large parlor.

Patsy coddled Bethaleigh in the kitchen to spare the child the trauma of seeing her mother in discomfort. Francois offered towels cooled in water to help reduce the swelling. Stuart offered medical advice from his experience in battle, but it was Meg who produced narrow strips of a torn sheet and expertly wrapped the swollen ankle. Reggie hung in the background, seemingly ignored by the others. However, everyone was acutely aware of his presence. The air fairly crackled with energy, a generous portion of which originated from Monsieur Dublan.

When at last the ankle was bandaged and it was evident that Michelle was not in immediate danger, Lily declared it was time for brandies in the small parlor and led the way for the others to follow, leaving Michelle and Reggie alone. Lily returned just long enough to purposely close the door with a knowing smile.

For a timely moment, neither spoke. Reggie stared out the window at nothing, with his back to Michelle, while the girl kept her eyes averted. She jumped at the sound of his voice.

"Why did you write nothing about who you were?" She looked at him then, noticing his white shirt, torn and stained lightly with blood where the thorns had gouged his arms and sides. Dark eyes flashed with resentment and black hair fell over his brow in disarray. Cream colored breeches covered muscular thighs and black hessian boots finished his attire, glossy beneath the day's dust and duty.

"I could not. I never meant for us to meet. Truly, I regret my actions and you have my apology for misleading you." She spoke slowly, choosing her words and her eyes, again, fell downcast.

"Was it all a practical joke to you? Did you get a good giggle out of my foolishness?" Reggie accused.

"No! It wasn't like that!"

"Tell me how it was, then!" Reggie raised his voice in spite of his efforts to control himself and stepped toward the girl. Michelle cringed, shrinking back into the cushions surrounding her and raised a hand to ward off any blows that may befall her.

"No!" Her response came, in part, as an urgent plea. Tears welled in puddles and spilled down her cheeks, while hiccupping sobs racked her frame. Reggie retreated instantly, confused and angry. His anger, however, was directed inward. He felt like a fool. More than anything, he wanted to know what motivated her write to him as she did. In retrospect, there had been nothing outright that declared that she saw him as anything more than a brave soldier who risked life and limb for his countrymen and women. Yet, subtle words, penned with a tender heart, touched his soul in a way that he was sure meant more than love for country and those who served to protect. His clumsy outburst had frightened her and certainly caused him to lose ground.

Lily had mentioned that Michelle had been violated and here he was acting like a menacing oaf. The knowledge of her unfortunate experience did not cause him to recoil in distaste toward her. Rather it made him angrier that he would not have the satisfaction of seeing the man, who had committed the act, die with great suffering at his hand.

Not once in her letters did she betray her own suffering. Instead, she plead for his safety and well-being, encouraging him with her faith and gentle humor, while expressing a belief in his stamina and courage. How did she see those traits of heroism and bravery that he didn't know he possessed until that moment of truth when he faced amoral conditions and unbelievable disregard for innocence.

He'd not been present when the orders were given to fire upon the women and children of the working class. He fought bitterly with the dilemma of what he would have done, had he been there that day. By some stroke of fate, he was not, and he was left with the lingering question of what would he have done. Until that day, he believed the propaganda of the middle class business and property owners that privilege was determined by a higher power and not to be challenged. It was not until he was in Cambodia with the commission of serving as an armed guard in one of the prison camps that he saw the whole war and a useless waste of life. Most of the prisoners were survivors of the ill-fated Paris Commune, idealists, who had simply put their dreams in the hands of dreamers. They were not criminals, thieves, murders or rapists, but rather honest, hard working citizens. Their treatment was shameful and he despaired of any good coming from it.

He confided to Meg that he saw his life as a shameful failure. There was no glory in guarding chained men who were thousands of miles from home, poorly clad and malnourished. All his visions of heroic feats of bravery and courageous sacrifice in battle vanished before his eyes as he waded knee deep in mud and pouring rain to brandish a bayonet at men who's spirits had been broken. He'd been at a low point when he wrote to her one Sunday morning describing his disappointment in himself. It was the only day when he was allowed five hours to do as he wished. Just writing the letter had vanquished some of his hopelessness.

Two and a half weeks later, he received a letter in return. She began the letter as a lighthearted review of the latest news and gossip concerning the up and coming social scene of Paris. Then in profound wisdom, wrote of how one day he would look back on those days and his actions now would determine how he would remember and be remembered.

'_If you have done your best to be kind and good to these poor and degraded individuals, then you have done your part and cannot be responsible for their present condition. Those who have abused them will have a similar fate, for what goes around comes around. I cannot imagine that you would harm anyone who meant no harm to you, so take courage in what ever good you can do and let your actions speak for themselves_. _Love Always, Meg_'

After that particular letter, he wrote almost every day, sometimes twice. The replies to his correspondence came almost as frequent. As the time for his return to France drew near, he took courage that he had something to return home to. His parents would be glad to see him and relieved that he was safe, but it was time for him to think about his future plans, which included being married and having a home. All his hopes and dreams by that time included Meg. Though she had not written the three words he wanted to read most, a deeper understanding of her heart and soul had emerged between them. In July, he had taken ill with fever and found it difficult to keep down nourishment. Between frequent vomiting and chills combined with fever, the doctor despaired of his recovery. It was Meg's or rather Michelle's letters which kept him alive. Barely sustained on weak tea and what little food he could keep down, he fought to stay alive. Delirious at times, he imagined that Meg, in her pale beauty, cared for him, bathed his brow and whispered soft words of love. When the fever left and he realized that no one, in fact, had been there to attend to him, he wished for the fever to return, so desperate was he for her gentle presence. Even now, realizing that even his dreams were not as he believed shook him.

He wrote telling her of the fever and how her letters had sustained him through one of the worst ordeals of his life and how her faith had given him the will to live. Her response was the most touching of all the letters, the words remaining in his heart and mind long after he read them.

'_I felt in my heart that something terrible had overtaken you when I did not receive your letters for just over a week now. I prayed with all my heart for your safety and well-being, for I could not bear it if you were to leave us. I imagined the worst at times and yet I knew, by some unseen, though profound and wise messenger, that you were alive. For days now, I have clung to that telepathic communication. The wondering was torture until I understood the messenger was Hope. I dreamed that I bathed your brow and gave you my heart that you would know that you are not alone. When I received your letter today, I felt so alive and happy that I think I will be floating on air for days yet, so deep is my joy. Your life means as much to me as my own. Take care of yourself. As Always Yours, M.' _

She'd only used her first initial that time and Reggie wondered about it at the time. Now it seemed more unusual. Did Michelle use the single letter to symbolize a difference in identity? He wanted to ask her if she really meant those words, but something held him back from speaking his thoughts out loud. Instead, he looked at her, trying to read her thoughts. He knew nothing about her, he decided, not her interests, concerns, fears or pleasures. Did she refuse to meet his gaze out of disinterest or embarrassment? If she were embarrassed, he could understand. Hell, he found the situation embarrassing, but he was also angry and had no idea of how to communicate his thoughts. It came as a surprising revelation that he wanted to.

It may have been easier to walk away from her and try to forget the whole thing. If she desired it, he would, but he had to know if she had written to him to fulfill a duty, or if she had written from the heart. Another thing bothering him was that she recognized him on the knoll, when he was sure they had never met.

"You implied you knew who I was, before I introduced myself. I was certain that we have never met." Reggie said, watching her closely, in search of a clue to her emotions. "How did that come about?" Her sobs had been reduced to sniffles and she dried her eyes with a white handkerchief.

Without looking at him, she explained. "We did meet when I was thirteen. I was invited to a party at your parents' house. We stayed overnight with Lily. There were many other girls there and you wouldn't have remembered me in the crowd. You had just returned from school and I remember how proud your parents were of you that you had graduated with honors. They gave you a horse the day I was there."

"Spartacus."

"What?" Michelle asked, unsure of what he's said.

"The horse was Spartacus. I still have him, a fine animal." Reggie smiled then. "How could I have been so blind?" His words were spoken without intent and he almost regretted them. Michelle blinked and looked at him directly for a moment, then looked away, confused. "I have to understand something before I leave" Reggie spoke, rushing his words before he lost the nerve to say what was in his heart. " A hundred questions beg to be asked, but the one that I need to know now is do you want to me to leave you be and never seek you out again? If you not wish it, then I should like to continue corresponding with you and visit upon occasion. I will not take offense or be a menace if you wish to never speak to me again." His words came out in a manner that more befitted a business deal. Michelle's eyes met his in dismay and her brows met in distress.

"There is so much you do not know. If you did, you would make such an offer." She answered with a chilling lack of hope.

"Then tell what I do not know, that I may remain ignorant no longer. I have played the fool long enough!" Reggie's frustration betrayed itself in his voice. Again, Michelle turned her eyes away. "Do not continue to keep me from the truth, Michelle. Six months, I have been lied to, believing that I was cared for by someone who loved another. You convinced me of it, Michelle. What other lies do I believe?" Reggie fought to keep his voice down. It wouldn't take much to bring Lily, Stuart, Meg and the remaining household running in to protect Michelle from his verbal outrage if he did not control his anger. Ordinarily he was not a violent man, but his patience was being pushed to its limits.

"I am not a...a virtuous woman." Michelle stammered. Reggie barely heard her. Stricken with dismay at her words, he stared at her.

"I do not believe it. Lily told me about...about the unfortunate incident and the baby. I could not possibly believe that you have lost the goodness within you that determines virtue. If you had, there are any number of things that could have come from it. But, you are a mother and there is no shame in that. I will confess that I would much rather that you had not been through such a terrible experience, but as wishing for things to be different than they are is a waste of time, I shall not dwell on it. Now, if there is anything else that I should know, please tell me now, that I may not be left in doubt of where I stand."

"I would like it very much, if we continue writing and anytime you may visit, I shall make you welcome."

An almost inaudible sound on the other side of the door caught their attention. Reggie put his finger to his lips, signaling for Michelle to be silent and carefully tiptoed to the door. He quickly pulled it open to reveal Lily retreating in haste.

"Spying on me again! When will you cease?" Reggie accused without rancor. Lily feigned indignation with a smile and returned to seat herself in a chair close to Michelle, who blushed, embarrassed by the scenario.

"Forgive me for my insatiable curiosity. But what fun is there if a girl can't spy on her big brother. I have waited my whole life for such an opportunity! I was simple trying not to intrude on something important. Bethaleigh is hungry and needs her mother." Lily justified, and patted Michelle's hand.

"Bring her in then, but not for too long. Michelle should rest." Reggie instructed.

It was Garrick who brought the infant to her mother. He cast a disapproving look at Reggie, as he deposited the baby in her mothers arms and left. Reggie followed, slightly curious of what merited such a look, but not enough to inquire. Stuart thrust a glass of brandy in his hands as soon he joined his brother-in-law in the small parlor.

"So how are things between you and the young lady?" Stuart asked pleasantly.

"Time will tell. She has agreed that we should continue our correspondence. Other than that, nothing..." Reggie drank from the glass and exhaled in mild response to the liquid that burned a trail down his throat.

"You must remember that she has been through a most traumatic experience. She is going to require patience and careful courting. But, she seems a gentle soul." Stuart mused.

"I don't like leaving her here. It could be months before I have an opportunity to come back and she is in no condition to travel now." Reggie said, thinking aloud.

"When she has recovered from the sprain, she may come and live with Lily and myself. Lily needs someone to fuss over and it may be just what she needs to keep her occupied and out of mischief." Stuart raised his eyes heavenward in a silent gesture of prayer that it would be so, for he could not possibly expect that his wife would ever be content with minding her own business.

Meg surveyed her reflection and conceded that no amount of face powder and rouge would disguise the tension forming a line between her brows. She wore a burgundy gown with narrow gold lace and trim. Four rows of amber beads draped below the square neckline and rose in the center to form a collar of sorts. Similar rows of the amber beads draped over her upper arms in place of sleeves. The skirt was narrow with a ruffle of tiny pleats at the bottom. The back was pulled up in the back to expose an underskirt of black on burgundy satin brocade. The front of the dress had no defined waist, but instead a center panel, cut full to accommodate the growing child within her. Her hair was pinned up in a soft twist with narrow tendrils spiraling gently about her face.

Erik watched her from the doorway of his study, dressed in black, formal attire. "You look lovely. Why do you continue to fuss?" He spoke with a harsh edge to his voice, negating his own lack of concern.

"I'm nervous. This is a very important evening for several reasons. I want to look my best." Meg said, applying her favorite shade of lipstick.

"Is there someone you are trying to impress that I should be jealous of?" Erik mocked softly.

"Of course not!" Meg exclaimed. "Reggie was informed by his sister earlier today that it was Michelle who wrote to him for over three months while he was stationed in Cambodia, during which time, he believed it was me. The poor man returned home to discover I had been married for three months. I'm rather uncomfortable with the situation, because I asked Michelle to write to him and gently discourage him from having feelings for me. But, it seems that she did no such thing. They corresponded and it seems they fell in love, but Michelle is distant and afraid. I don't blame her, but poor Reggie is just as confused and concerned he will frighten her." Meg explained, nervously.

"Did he fall in love with Michelle or you?" Erik asked, a cool tone in his voice.

"He believed it to be me, but he's been set straight on that score. I'm sure he is embarrassed by the whole scenario. I'm married, for pity sake. The poor man just wants to get on with his own life."

"I wouldn't be feeling sorry for him if Michelle really loves him. Garrick is another story, however. He is going to be heartbroken. I think he has a terminal case of puppy love." Erik mused, coming to stand beside his wife.

"I know. But, Michelle needs someone much older and wiser than Garrick. Reggie has grown up a great deal and I believe that Michelle thinks he is wonderful. I have a feeling that she was a little infatuated with him when she was younger." Meg confided.

"I sincerely hope he returns her affections. I should hate to render him useless should he pursue an interest in my wife." Erik met her gaze in the mirror.

"I beg of you to behave yourself this evening, Erik. Reggie does not hold my interest, nor I his." Meg sighed. "This promises to be an interesting evening. It will our first dinner party together. I'm really nervous."

"Why are you nervous? Do you expect something disastrous to occur? Are you thinking I might commit a social error that would end our association with these people? You already have my promise on that score. Just as long as these characters do not attempt to flirt with my wife, they are perfectly safe." Erik said solemnly. Meg sighed, again.

"Men flirt, Erik. It means nothing. You know this as well as anyone."

"You are wrong. Men always want something for their effort."

"But, it may be only a smile or agreeable company they seek. I think Stuart will be too occupied in his thoughts with Lily to think of anyone else, and Reggie is not going to think about anything but Michelle for a long time." Meg smiled at the thought of Reggie and Michelle discovering each other on the knoll. It was very romantic and said as much to Erik. He cast her a doubtful look, but said nothing. Meg put the finishing touch on her make-up, took her husband's arm and together, they walked down the elegant staircase to greet their guests.

Meg knew they made a beautiful pair and beamed at the looks they received from the other two couples waiting in the large parlor below. Lily, flawless as usual, wore a narrow, sleeveless gown of pale pink silk. White fur trimmed the neckline. Stuart, in full military uniform, had his arm possessively about her waist. Reggie, too, wore his military clothing and Michelle looked positively stunning in the satin gown of shimmering emerald. The color boldly matched her eyes and emphasized the creamy paleness of her skin. Michelle was seated on the plush settee, her hands clasped nervously in her lap. Reggie and Garrick hovered on opposite sides of her. Meg sensed that Lily was, at least in part, responsible for Michelle's sophisticated appearance.

The men greeted Erik, displaying respect, combined with measure of reverence. Erik, in turn, was gracious, however reserved and wary. Meg did not expect less. He'd never viewed another man as an equal. In all of his life experience, he had either been at the mercy of some who sought to destroy him, subject to others who used him or in control of those whom he used for his own purpose.

A moment of realization and truth passed through Reggie and Stuart as they exchanged glances. Erik was only too aware of their shocking discovery. They knew of his infamy and for an instant, struggled with their moral obligation to seize a notorious monster and their more obvious disadvantage. They were at his mercy for he looked more than capable of defending himself against both of them. The other consideration was the women. They were not in the least afraid of him. To the contrary, they looked at him as though mesmerized by his very presence. Not a word was spoken as an even deeper understanding dawned on all parties present. It was for the sake of the women that the men would behave as gentlemen and there existed a bond between the women and this man that Stuart and Reggie would be foolish to oppose. An unspoken declaration of devotion and profound loyalty was present in the countenance of Garrick, also.

Suddenly, all other eyes shifted from Erik to the men in uniform, challenging them in some way to declare their position. Stuart spoke first. "We find ourselves in the presence of a legend. A most unexpected surprise, I might add." He spoke carefully and without the slightest hint of mockery. "It is an honor to meet you, sir. I thank you for your kind hospitality to my brother-in-law, myself and my wife." A declaration had been made. Stuart would not take an opposing position and neither would Reggie, who nodded his agreement.

The party continued with the strained atmosphere dissipating gradually. Dinner was served in regal opulence, gleaming silver and china adorning the table. A choice of three meats were served, lamb, goose and ham. Light as air, white rolls with fresh butter and fruit preserves, mashed potatoes with gravy, an assortment of steamed vegetables, fresh garden salad, fruit salad and a variety of cheeses, puddings and cakes artfully filled the side board. Francois had ordered Wendy and Darcy about with the authority of a king in his kitchen to produce such a feast. Even the harshest critic would have been petty to find fault with the expertly prepared meal. Gemma had already established herself as the reigning presence of cleanliness and domestic perfection, while maintaining a aura of deference and quiet servitude. Patsy had assumed the role of Bethaleigh's nurse since Michelle had injured her foot and remained with the infant.

The meal was a success and the conversation was upbeat and jolly as Stuart shared a comical incident involving a bottle of rum and a pilfered box of Cuban cigars which got him in trouble with the school master. Michelle, shyly said something and Reggie bent his head to hear her better, placing his arm along the back of her chair. He laughed at her words and Michelle blushed prettily.

"What is it?" Lily asked, curiously. "You two are whispering sweet nothings and I want to know what Michelle said that made you laugh."

"She just said that it is fortunate for you that Stuart has a sense of humor and a similar history of outrageous behavior." Reggie confessed.

"Oh, no!" Stuart denied. "I haven't the nerve of my lovely wife. She humbles me daily with her wit and courage." It was Lily's turn to blush.

Dinner was over and the party moved to the parlor, where brandy and cigars awaited the men. Reggie offered Michelle his arm for support as she still limped, favoring the tender ankle. Michelle was smiling and flushed, clearly enjoying the attention.

Only Garrick seemed displaced and at odds with the world. He was unusually quiet, and as the evening progressed, he grew sullen. When Reggie settled himself next to the dark haired girl on the settee, Garrick excused himself abruptly and departed. The women quickly exchanged glances and Erik excused himself to follow the boy. Stuart and Reggie looked confused and inquired if something was amiss.

"Garrick is stricken with a severe case of puppy-love and recovery will take awhile." Meg said gently. "Please be patient with him. He would be terribly embarrassed if you asked him about it." The men nodded in agreement that such things were better left alone.

Erik found the young man out in the vegetable garden throwing stones at the scarecrow. "He's the only innocent one in all this." Erik said, gesturing toward the scarecrow with a lantern. Garrick retrieved another handful of stones and continued pelting the stuffed character.

"I wish him to be another." Garrick admitted.

"I suppose there is a certain amount of harmless sport in that." Erik picked up several stones and threw one at the scarecrow, scoring a mark on its burlap face. Garrick's next stone caught the scarecrow in the middle, causing considerable injury as straw fell out from the stuffed shirt. In a very short time, the scarecrow was nothing more that a heap of straw and rags.

"She never looked at me like she looks at him." Garrick said, finally. "Why couldn't I be what she wanted? I would do anything for her, but she never wanted what I had to give. All this time I just thought she needed time, but suddenly this man shows up and she swoons into his arms. It makes me sick." Garrick kicked at the ground in disgust. "What does she see in him?"

"What do women see in any of us? Men are a generally disgusting lot." Erik said, looking up at the night sky. "Let us return to our guests and be civil. Meg will become distressed if we remain out here too long. You see, Garrick, women are a strange lot, too. They worry needlessly over us for some mysterious reason. Buck up and show Michelle that you are a man who can take care of himself and put her mind at ease. Love is not always about holding someone close. Sometimes the greatest love is the one that sets someone free to pursue their our own destiny."

"Will the ache in my heart ever go away?" Garrick wondered aloud.

"Perhaps not entirely, but oddly enough, the human heart is capable of loving til the very last beat. You have many years ahead of you to fall in and out of love, but for now, there is jug of new wine in the basement. I suggest we invite our guests to sample it before retiring." Erik said, leading the way back to the chateau. Garrick followed.

As he promised, Erik invited the other men down into the basement to sample the new vintage. Meg and the other women remained in the large parlor, discussing matters pertaining to the events of the day and how the men were getting on better than any of them dared hope. A short time after midnight, the men returned from the basement, a little inebriated and singing a bawdy song. Garrick was singing the loudest, staggering bleary eyed and leaning on Reggie for support.

"Oh my goodness!" Meg exclaimed, when she saw them. "What have you done to the poor boy?"

"He'll recover soon enough, probably sometime tomorrow." Erik said.

"I'll take him up and put him to bed." Reggie said, like he had a choice, considering the boy was draped over his body, helpless to stand on his own.

"Thank you, Reggie, for looking after him. He just isn't able to hold his liquor, I suppose." Michelle said, looking at Reggie like he was the stuff heros were made of.

Meg helped Michelle limp to her room on the main floor, where Darcy helped the injured girl prepare for bed. Lily and Stuart expressed their enjoyment of the evening and left Meg and Erik alone.

"I'd say your party was a success, Madame de Leon." Erik said, offering his arm to Meg. Together, they walked up the great staircase.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Meg asked, resting her head against his shoulder.

"My enjoyment is in yours. I wish for your contentment that you may never regret becoming my bride. That fateful night you followed me into the Paris underground, I asked you if you intended to be a virginal sacrifice for your friend. What have you given up to be here with me?" Erik opened the door to their bedroom and let her enter first, followed and closed the door behind him.

"Erik, there is nothing without you. This child which grows within me is because of you. We are here now, because you brought me here to be your wife. You opened up your home and heart tonight to Stuart and Lily, Reggie and Michelle, because I asked you to. Already, Lily plans to visit come Christmastime. We are surrounded with loyal friends and soon we will have a family. I have sacrificed nothing. Do you still think of Christine?" Meg said, turning away, her hand placed protectively over her abdomen.

"Sometimes, I wonder what would have been different if Christine had accepted my offer, but then I remember she did, and I sent her away. She could only offer pity and that was worse than nothing. I wanted to die that night, and a part of me did, but you brought me back to life and gave me something to live for. Why did you do it?"

"When you were doing the scene of _Past the Point of No Return_, I saw you risk everything for Christine. I admit I was jealous. I wanted someone who would risk it all for me, and tonight when you allowed Stuart and Reggie into our lives, you did risk everything. They had no way of knowing that you'd been pardoned and you knew they could have turned against you. Also, you knew that Reggie had feelings for me once and still you welcomed him as an honored guest." Meg stood before her husband, reached up and kissed on the corner of his mouth.

"He is harmless and I rather like Stuart. However, I will be just as pleased when they are gone and I can have you to myself." Erik pulled his wife into his arms and kissed her.

THE END

_Stay tuned for the epilogue._


	22. Epilogue

The house in Paris was lit up like a beacon in the night. Rain pelted down in heavy torrents against the windows. Erik paced in the study. In the parlor, Stuart, Reggie and Lily were seated, tense and silent. Eutacia was seated in a wheelchair. She coughed harshly, and thumped her chest, then continued breathing in small shallow gasps. Alice, the old woman's personal nurse, stood nearby ready to administer any necessary assistance. The servant girls bustled between the kitchen and the parlor, serving tea and tiny cakes. Milton hovered in the foyer, raising his eyes periodically to door above on the second floor. Madame Giry stepped out momentarily and everyone, hearing the door open, rushed out into the foyer to hear of the newest arrival. Madame Giry shook her head gravely and requested more towels, which Stella had kept warm on the kitchen stove.

Erik stepped from his study at the sound of voices. "Is the baby here yet?" He asked, hopefully. Milton shook his head. Erik returned to his study, closing the door. Leaning with his back against the door he removed the mask and buried his face in his hands. It felt suffocating and hot. His fingers traced the creases in the soft loose skin where the mask had been. Would his child bear the same mark? A chill ran through him like a cold clammy hand squeezed his heart and froze there spreading its icy touch throughout his body.

He'd been able to think of nothing else since Meg's labor began just after the stroke of midnight seventeen hours earlier. The midwife had been sent for instantly and she arrived just a few hours later. Meg had decided she wanted to have the baby in Paris and so several weeks before the time she was expected to deliver, they had traveled to Paris. Erik would have chosen to remain at the chateau, but it was not fair for him to make that choice. Meg said she wanted their child to be born in Paris to be close to her mother. Erik had suggested that Madame Giry should come to the chateau, but Meg argued that she didn't want her mother at the chateau just yet. It made little sense to Erik, but Meg was insistent.

Earlier that day when Meg's labor was still in the early stages, there had been a festive atmosphere in the house. Word was sent to Lily and a short time later she appeared with Stuart, Reggie and Michelle. The house staff began baking and the smell of delicious treats filled the house. Eutactia, who had not been well for weeks, insisted on getting out of bed and sitting with the guests in the parlor. Only Madame Giry and Michelle were allowed in the room where Meg was giving birth. The midwife insisted upon it, stating that only women who had gone through the experience could endure the sight. She took another look at Lily's abdomen where a tell-tale swelling implied another child was on its way and grew more insistent that Lily should not be present during the delivery.

As the hours dragged on, Erik found the company of the others difficult to take. They meant well and he was secretly pleased that Meg had good people who cared, but he needed solitude more than anything. He needed to think and more than once, he'd prayed. The waiting was agony and the longer the time grew, he worried about Meg. How much could a woman endure before the pain killed her or what if the child was too large and Meg died from being ripped and torn as this person forced its way into the world. His thoughts were becoming darker and increasingly morbid. As a rule, he knew nothing about human childbirth, but he'd seen horses die because the fetus became stuck or the animal hemorrhaged. For such a relatively short journey in distance, the trip out of the womb was undoubtedly the most treacherous adventure one made in life.

In all his experience, nothing had prepared Erik to be a father. So many questions plagued him. The most obvious being how would he explain his disfigurement? Naturally curious, a child would expect an honest answer. It seemed horribly inappropriate to tell a child that the reason Daddy's face looked like a dog had chewed on it was that dear Granny had tried to kill him before he was born.

The temptation to blame it on the Creator came and went. It was hardly plausible to expect a child to believe in and worship a loving God who would deliberately create a monster, and Erik no longer hated God for the deformity. Right now, he forgave God for everything on the condition that Meg lived. Erik no longer cared that his child may be born scarred or deformed. He just wanted his wife and child to live. He needed God, because there was no one else who could help Meg like He could.

It was late, though Erik had lost track of time. Sometime after the sun went down, he'd stopped looking at his watch and watched the rain splattering against the window. A tap on the door indicated someone seeking him. He put the mask on before answering the door. Milton stood outside with a covered, silver tray.

"I brought you dinner, Monsieur." He said. Erik stepped aside, allowing the butler to enter.

"Is there anything that you can tell me?" Erik asked, ignoring the tray of food.

"Not anything in particular. Eustacia has retired for the evening, but your visitors remain. Should I have someone prepare rooms for them. The weather is not permitting easy travel and it could be a long night yet." Milton inquired.

"Yes, but I will invite them myself." Erik entered the parlor where Lily and Stuart had made themselves comfortable to pass the time. Lily was doing needlework, while Stuart perused a thick leather-bound volume of French history.

"My apologies for abandoning you. Please forgive me. There are rooms being prepared for you to stay the night. You must be very tired, and I thank you for your vigilance. I will send someone to inform you if there is any change or news. I understand it is quite common for a birth to take many hours and sometimes days." Erik said, his manner formal. "Has Reggie left?" He asked noticing the absence of the younger man.

"He has not gone far. I believe he is sitting on the stairs." Stuart said looking up from his reading. "How are you? We are concerned about you also, my friend, and wish to lend our support and encouragement."

Erik blinked. Unaccustomed to such forthright declarations, he stiffened, immediately suspicious but quickly hid his reaction by pretending to look for Milton and clearing his throat. It was still difficult for him to be in the company of the other couple without Meg. She was the connection between these people and as much as they appeared to desire a friendly relationship, Erik remained skeptical. It was for her sake that he welcomed them, but Stuart's open concern had affected him in a way that was both disturbing and comforting. Was it possible that Stuart and Lily really cared about him and not just Meg? Erik quickly dashed the thought from his brain. He'd learned from past experience that few people were trustworthy and each time he'd forgot it, it cost him dearly. The awkward moment was saved by a joyous cheer from the stairway.

Erik rushed to the foyer and looked up at Madame Giry standing in the open doorway of Meg's room. Garrick and Reggie, the parties responsible for the cheering, were standing on the stairway, eyes raised upward and smiling in relief and wonder.

Erik froze. This was the moment. Madame Giry was smiling, her countenance as bright as a sunny day. It had to be a good omen.

"Come and meet your son." She said, beaming.

A son. Suddenly, life, and his life in particular, had meaning and purpose. He was no longer the wasted monument of potential, he'd compared himself to in the early morning hours after the fire at the Opera Populaire. This was why he was born, why he lived when he thought he'd be better off dead. His son would inherit the title, property and responsibilities which had been thrust upon him so unexpectedly. Now, he understood what motivated Eustacia. Family, it was what made the world more than a giant, spinning piece of rock in a endless void. He felt unusually light as though a great weight had been removed from his very heart and soul.

Impulsively, he embraced the nearest person, Stuart, who clasped his in a great bear hug. Michelle appeared in that moment holding the baby swaddled in a pale blue shawl. Erik up looked in wonder, then raced up the stairs to meet his son. Reggie and Garrick stepped aside to let him pass. He'd forgotten his fears and hesitation. He would accept his son on any terms. The baby was alive and by all outward indications, Meg had survived the ordeal, as well.

Madame Giry took the child from Michelle and placed the tiny infant in its father's arms, still glowing with pure joy and grandmotherly pride. Erik gazed at his child with awe and marveled at the sight. Why were tears streaming down Erik's face, freely and unashamed? What had caused such a well to spring forth, when he'd never been so happy in all his life? The baby was red, wrinkled, and cried out passionately for the whole world to take notice of his arrival. Not a single blemish marked his countenance, and a thick thatch of dark hair covered his head. He was perfection in every way.

Michelle and Madame Giry stepped apart from the open doorway to allow Erik in the room to see Meg. She rested against many pillows, half sitting in the large bed, looking pale, but nonetheless alert and content. Great pride swelled in his chest as he held the tiny baby in his large hands and looked at his wife. She was so beautiful and strong, radiant with her new title of Mother that Erik felt humbled in her presence. What had a man ever done to compare with the woman who gave him life? Erik was speechless, not for the first time in his life, but never because he felt such an overwhelming sense of joy and love. It was as though God, himself, had opened up the heavens and poured out more love than the world deserved upon Erik, the least deserving of all, but still God gave, holding nothing back. It was that indescribable love that came with being a father that Erik knew he had a Father, who loved him unconditionally. The evidence was in his hands as tangible and real as anything he'd ever touched or seen with his own eyes.

"What will you be naming the young master?" The midwife asked. "It is best if I have the name now and can fill out the legal paperwork."

Erik looked at Meg. He'd not given the matter much thought. Even when Meg had asked him the same question earlier, he hadn't been able to give her an answer.

"I like the name, Ravenne but I also like Gunnar and William." Meg said, smiling wanly.

"Thaddeus." Erik said looking at his son. "Thaddeus Ravenne de Leon." Erik corrected himself, when a brief look of dismay crossed Meg's pale features. She smiled her approval.

"Go and introduce him to the others. They have been waiting a long time for this." Meg waved him away and settled back against the pillows.

Erik did so. Stuart, Lily , Reggie and the remaining household hovered about the door, eagerly crowding around to see the baby. It was surreal. For a moment, Erik wondered if he dreamed the event. It wouldn't have been the first time, he'd dreamed he held exquisite joy in his arms and awoke to find his happiness was only an illusion. Gradually, the infant ceased wailing and looked into his father's face. Large, dark pupils held a steady gaze as they took in the mask, then the child yawned as if there was very little to occupy his attention.

Little Ravenne, as his mother already called him, was returned to Meg's arms to receive nourishment. Cigars and brandy were served in the parlor to everyone, including the household staff, just after the stroke of midnight as a small celebration. Shortly afterward, everyone retired, except Erik. He sat in a comfortable chair in Meg's room near her bed, watching her sleep, the baby lying next to her.

Eustacia woke several hours latter to the news that she was a great-grandmother. She received the announcement calmly, but tears filled her eyes when she beheld the sight of the newest member of the family. "I have waited so long for this day. You have made me proud, Erik. Our family name will live on." Sixty two days later, the old woman passed on, surrounded by her family. Meg and Erik remained in Paris during that time, and Erik came to admire Eustacia for her devotion to her family. Family pride was one of the few things they could share without arguing. Erik learned about his father, his interests, preferences and dislikes. The man, who's portrait hung in the study, was very different than either his son or his mother, but rather took after his own father. Eustacia's husband Roger was a mild natured individual who was well received by all who knew him. Erik concluded he must have gotten his own cynicism from his dear grandmother, Eustacia, for as much as he wished to love her for her endearing qualities, he was far more annoyed by her stubbornness and unsubstantiated political opinions. She refused to acknowledge that the nobility was losing their power and privilege and predicted her great-grandson would reign in power as a great leader in the future of the European continent. Erik gave up trying to dissuade her.

It was still early summer when Erik and Meg returned to the chateau de Bagen with Ravenne. They had just settled into a comfortable routine when suddenly Meg found herself planning a wedding for late September. This wedding would be a small affair on the knoll where the couple had met that fateful November morning when the bride-to-be had sprained her ankle. Lily and Stuart arrived at the chateau two days before the wedding with their tiny twin daughters, Ruth and Raquel. The chateau was full of guests and there was hardly a moment when Meg and Erik had a moment to themselves. Meg was so busy, she didn't even have time to complain. Erik seemed to disappear from time to time and Meg could only wonder about it. He never said anything about where he'd been and he wasn't gone long enough to cause Meg to worry. Ravenne was napping, and the wedding was just hours away, but Meg's curiosity got the better of her. When Meg saw him leave, she followed him into the basement. It had been a long time since she went down there and was unprepared for the changes which awaited her.

Hand carved, gold-plated candelabras surrounded a church organ; sheet music lay spread out on a nearby table. It was strangely reminiscent of the Phantom's Lair at the Opera Populaire. Meg cleared her throat. Erik half turned to see her.

"I see that you've been busy." She said, waving her hand about the room.

"So have you."

"It's almost over. Does it bother you to have so many people about that you come down here to get away?" Meg wondered aloud.

"You could say that I like my friends in small doses. Have I neglected anyone?" Erik asked.

"No, Stuart and Lily have their hands full with the children. Reggie and Michelle don't know anyone else is alive. The staff are running themselves ragged. The wedding will be wonderful." Meg sighed.

"Will you marry me, Meg? This time, it will be a proper wedding like Michelle's and Reggie's. We'll even invite your mother. You didn't have much of a wedding and I'm sorry. I should have been more considerate." Erik was sincere. Meg wanted to laugh and cry at once.

"No! I won't hear of it. Though our wedding may have been rather sudden and I was soaked to the skin, I wouldn't have it different for anything in the world. It had more drama and adventure than anything I could hope for. I loved it and I love you. One day I shall tell our grandchildren about it and I wouldn't want to spoil the story with anything so ordinary as a perfect wedding!"

Thank you so much for reading our story! We loved all your reviews and hope they continue for awhile.

Don't think we're gonna disappear! Expect something to come up real soon either on or y'all,

Shari & Naomi

"ShyeMareck"


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